Salem's Lot: Infestation
by Pavlov's Daughter
Summary: (BASED ON 2004 TNT VERSION) Two years after the Lot burned to the ground, plans are made to rebuild. 16-year-old Mark Petrie has no intention of going back...until he receives news that someone is looking for him...
1. Prologue

Hi, everybody! (Hello, Dr. Nick!) Excuse me, I have The Simpson's on the brain…oh well. Here's my Author's Note! The incredibly talented Mr. Stephen King owns the original idea for 'SALEM'S LOT, along with the characters Mark Petrie, Ben Mears, Father Callahan, Dr. James "Jimmy" Cody (if I mentioned him…I can't remember), Mark's mother, Dud Rogers, Kurt Barlow, Richard Straker, Susan Norton, Sheriff Parkins & family, the McDougall's, Danny Glick, Eva Prunier, and anyone else from the TNT version of 'Salem's Lot. I own everybody else. So basically, you can't take the ideas for any of the characters from this story unless Mr. King or I say so…OR THOU SHALT SUFFER THE WRATH OF…._ME_….(or Stephen King's lawyers). Either way, I would be afraid if I were you. _Very_ afraid.

**PROLOGUE**

Dud Rogers, the local gib, sat next to Mike Ryerson's backhoe. Tears streamed down his face as he scrawled the word 'Jerk' on the front of it. The flames from the dump behind him were slowly painting a red rim around the sky, creating an unearthly glow. Suddenly, Dud felt something. He couldn't exactly put his finger on it, but he felt it just the same. He turned to see a man standing with his back towards him, facing the smoldering garbage. "Dump's closed, mister!" Dud shouted.

"I'm just watching the fires." The man turned, the light from the blaze reflected in his glasses. And yet, even after his face was engulfed in the shadows of his wide-rimmed hat, the eyes continued to glow, just for an instant. Dud didn't notice. "Scares the animals away."

"Just the rats," Dud called back. "Smokes 'em from their holes."

"Where will they go?" The man's voice was deep and comforting.

"I guess they'll find another hole…" Dud took a few steps towards him. "You from around here?"

The man smiled. "Just over the hill." He kicked over a few mounds of garbage. "What are you writing there?" He indicated Mike's backhoe.

"Nothin'…" Dud quickly sidestepped in front of the spray painted words. The man didn't say anything; he just continued to stare intently at Dud. "Mike's been my best friend since junior high! It's his backhoe; I'll wash it off…" He turned around and looked helplessly at the white letters that seemed to almost burn.

"No, leave it." The man didn't take his eyes off Dud.

"I didn't do anything wrong…!" Dud launched into an explanation, determined to make this new man understand that Dud was a good person, that Dud wouldn't hurt anybody. The man just continued to walk towards him. He just smiled sympathetically at Dud.

"Say, aren't you one of the fellas who bought the Marsten place?" Dud asked, peering into his face.

"Very good."

Dud gave him a lop-sided grin. "Are there any ghosts in that old house?"

"Ghosts?" The man's brow furrowed, then he smiled. "No, no _ghosts_…"

"I didn't think so!" Dud said proudly. "Well, it's always nice when someone comes by to, you know, shoot the breeze, but the dump closes at six and it's half-past nine now, so…"

"Dud…" The man was directly in front of him now, no more than a few inches away. He took off his glasses slowly. How the man knew his name, Dud didn't know. He also didn't care. "I notice that you're limping? Curvature of the spine?" Dud's smile faltered. "Does that bother you?"

"No, I can work fine." Dud answered immediately.

"I meant, in _other_ ways."

"No…" Dud replied hesitantly, with less enthusiasm. The man stared at him critically. "Well, girls…just girls…"

The man smiled grimly, knowingly. "And their boyfriends, and the other kids?"

"Sometimes…they laugh!"

"What were you to say if I gave you the chance to be equal to those boys and girls…or maybe even a little more? Would you take it?" His eyes were locked on Dud's.

_"Equal…?"_ The bottle of spray paint fell to the ground with a soft thud.

When he was finished with Dud, Kurt Barlow stood in the dump for a few minutes, admiring the last of the smoldering fire. A rat scampered past his feet and ducked into an already existing hole near the rubble by Dud's splayed legs. "The rats will find another hole…" Barlow glanced down at Dud's face. An expression of frozen terror stretched the skin around Dud's cheeks tautly. "But sometimes, Master Rogers, rats come back after the flames are out…"


	2. The Only Survivor

CHAPTER ONE

BANG.

_Honey, I'm home._

The door of the one-bedroom apartment hit the wall with an ear-splitting crash. The television stand, the hanging lamp in the kitchen, and the few pictures on the tables rattled. Even though this welcoming was far from unordinary, Mark flinched involuntarily. In the kitchen, his aunt Joyce shouted something, then his uncle's deep, slurred voice mumbled an insult from the front room. Loud, angry footsteps rumbled from the kitchen to the next room, accompanied by the high-pitched, nagging voice of his aunt.

Mark no longer even attempted to hear what they were saying. Every conversation between the two of them was the same: Joyce would ask how her husband's day went (in a tone that showed she really didn't care), and Alan, in his drunken stupor, would answer something along the lines of "None of your business, you old hag". Then Hell spit out an argument so loud and fiery that it could be heard in the apartment building next door.

The small walk-in closet at the end of the hall was secluded enough to almost block out some of the shouts that echoed from the first half of the apartment. In this area, Mark was able to continue working on his book. He reread what he had just written:

_"The real evil lies not in the people themselves, but in the clutch that holds them. In a small town, everyone has secrets. Damn it, will they never stop screaming?"_

Mark stared at the last sentence, confused. Had he really written that? After scribbling it out, Mark lightly chewed on the cap of the pen, deep in thought. The story was missing something. Mark laughed at himself silently. Of course it was: the real author. But Ben was dead, rotting in some graveyard that housed unclaimed corpses. And buried with him were the roots to Ben?s book he had wanted to write; the reason he had come to ?Salem?s Lot. So Mark had taken up the pen where Ben left off, not for Ben?s satisfaction, but his own. He knew there was no way he could weave a story as intricate as Ben could, but it was more the reason behind the account that pushed Mark to complete his task.

A floorboard creaked in the hall, and Mark quickly stuffed his notebook into the loose tile in the corner of the closet. A second later, the door to the closet swung open. His step-uncle, Alan, stood in the doorway, his massive shoulders scraping against both sides of Mark?s exit. Alan reached out and single-handedly yanked Mark out of the closet. Mark was no longer the short and skinny boy he had been two years ago, but his uncle was just so?gigantic. Alan could have lifted Arnold Schwarzeneger out of his closet if he felt like it.

Alan threw Mark to the ground his a sickening crunch. Mark quickly made sure he hadn?t broken or sprained anything, then he propped himself up on his elbows gingerly, warily not making eye contact. Making eye contact with Alan was like making eye contact with an angry bull while wearing red. Mark stared fixedly at one of the beer stains on the carpet.

?Look at me, you piece of crap.?

Mark inhaled slowly, trying to contain his anger. He had never been good with one-on-one confrontations.

?Are you deaf, maggot? Look me in the eyes like a man!?

Sighing angrily, Mark closed his eyes. When he opened them a moment later, he was staring at his step-uncle?s huge red nose. His eyes traveled around Alan?s face, studying his round cheeks, his horse-like jaw, his many chins, but he refused to look into those piggish little eyes.

A grizzled and bloody knuckle came from out of nowhere and slammed into Mark?s jaw. He fell to his side, but he remained at least partially upright. He would not give Alan the satisfaction of seeing him lose his balance or his consciousness. Mark wiped his index finger against his lip and saw it was shiny and wet with crimson blood. He jerked his head around and met his uncle?s angry glare with an expression of utmost fury and hatred. Mark?s clear, brown eyes stared deep into Alan?s bloodshot, unfocused gray ones.

Shaking with rage, Mark slowly got to one knee, then rose unsteadily to his feet. He was two inches shy of Alan?s six-foot frame, but was still able to give his uncle a run for his money with his infuriating staring contest. Mark was saved by Joyce, who shouted to Alan about something on television.

Alan shoved Mark into the wall and proceeded towards the front room. Mark followed him slowly, slinking into their presence like a cat tip-toeing along the fence of a Doberman.

?There?s a bag of cheese cubes in the fridge,? Joyce called from her seat in front of the TV. Mark stood in the doorway of the kitchen, studying his aunt solemnly. She sat on the far edge of the couch, dressed in an old, tattered blue housecoat and curlers in her hair. Not for the first time, he wondered what had made her choose this husband, this life.

It was obvious that Joyce had been beautiful when she was younger. She had possessed a rare and true loveliness; not the fake kind that was seen plastered on magazine covers, but a dainty yet radiating appearance. But now, her auburn hair lay lank and flat on her shoulders, her cheeks sunken in. And her eyes, which had once been a shade not unlike the green of the ocean, now lay within the deep eye sockets of her face, dull and dark. No doubt a life filled with drugs, alcohol, and misery had followed her through high school, into college, and now showing their results with a vengeance in her forties.

Joyce?s eyes moved slowly from the television screen over to Mark, looking at but not seeing him. ?What, am I speaking another language? There are cheese cubes in the fridge,? she said in her low and chalky voice.

Mark moved into the kitchen, carefully avoiding the pile of over-flowing garbage, and opened the refrigerator door. He dug through the cans of beans and bottles of beer until he found a small bag of cheddar cheese cubes. Upon inspection, he discovered a large patch of greenish-blue hair growing on them. He checked the date of expiration: November of the year before.

Deciding he was no longer hungry, Mark searched for something to drink. He turned on the faucet above the sink, but only a faint rumbling sound greeted him. Alan probably hadn?t paid the water bill yet. Mark opened the fridge again and sighed. Beer. Lots and lots of beer. He hesitated, then grabbed a bottle. Then, loud footsteps were heard coming towards the kitchen.

Alan.

Mark threw the bottle back with lightning speed as if it were a poisonous snake, slammed the door to the refrigerator shut, and turned to see his step-uncle in the doorway.

?What-choo doin?? his uncle growled, his words slurred from the excessive drinking in front of the television. He clutched an empty beer can in his hand, gripping it with an impressive show of strength.

?Looking for something to drink,? Mark muttered, his not meeting his uncles eyes. Alan reached out his hand, and for a second, Mark thought he was going to hit him again. His muscles tensed, bracing himself for the punch, when Alan extended his hand to the faucet and flicked the handle upright. The rumbling started out slowly, grew louder, and finally a gush of ugly brown liquid gushed out. A moment later, it dissolved into the normal clear color.

Alan grabbed a couple of beers from the fridge and left, muttering insults directed at Mark under his breath. When his uncle turned his back, Mark shot up his middle finger and then got a cup out of the cupboard.

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The shrill school bell could drive even the sanest out of their minds. It lasted for exactly a minute, and it almost reached the octave that could break glass. Most of the students didn?t need bells, though. They were, for the most part, in their rooms on time. Of course, since the high school?s total student population was under two hundred, there were fewer teenagers who thrived on breaking the rules. Mark was the exception. He rushed into his homeroom almost four minutes late and slid into his seat in the back of the room.

Mr. Gibbs, Marks?s homeroom teacher, pursed his lips and scratched his mustache delicately, as if he was afraid it would fall out at any given moment. ?Mr. Petrie?? He made his way through the rows of desks and stood before Mark, gazing down at him with piercing eyes, acting as intimidating as a skinny five-foot-two man was able. Mark, on the other hand, tossed his giant homemade rubber band ball back and forth between his callused hands, eyebrows raised in an act of complete indifference and boredom.

?Mr. Petrie, I believe this is?what, the sixth day of school? Tell me, how many times have you been tardy to this class??

Mark sighed and placed the rubber band ball on his desk. Slowly raising his head, he put on a mocking grin and said, ?Seven.?

Snickers went up and down the rows while Mr. Gibbs?s cheeks grew steadily redder. ?Try talking to the principal that way, Mr. Petrie, and see who has the last laugh.?

Throwing his rubber band ball into his old battered messenger bag, Mark pushed his chair back (loudly) and, with one long stride, walked through the door and slammed it shut. He took a deep breath and stood outside the door for a moment, listening to Mr. Gibbs complain about him to the class.

Smirking, he made his way down the hall to Mr. Chutton?s office. Although he knew the way by heart, he took his time, stopping to kick a bottle cap and spit his gum on the floor. When he arrived at the principal?s office, he did the classic ?Knock, knock, knock-knock, knock? routine and stepped inside.

?Come in,? came Mr. Chutton?s greasy voice a moment after Mark came in. Mr. Chutton was sitting on his computer chair, typing away on his keyboard. When he heard Mark enter, he swung around and glared at Mark above the rims of his glasses. ?Well, well, well. Look who it is. It?s Mister I-Can-Get-Away-With-Anything-And-Not-Get-Into-Trouble. Well, guess what, Petrie. As soon as I find out why you?re here, I?ll make sure you?ll get into major trouble today,? Mr. Chutton said with a smirk, trying to frighten Mark. There was, in truth, nothing intimidating about Chutton. He was a short, squat, little man with a voice as oily as the gray-black tuffs of hair on the sides of his head. Chutton often compared himself to J. Edgar Hoover because he believed he could find the culprit behind any school-related crime.

Mark often compared him to a cow because he was fat and very dense.

?Mr. Chutton?? someone called outside the office. Like Mark, the person behind the door didn?t wait to be invited in. The ?someone? turned out to be a tall black woman with a wide, handsome face. She swept majestically into the room and extended her hand to Mark. Mark shook it reluctantly.

?And you are??? Mr. Chutton demanded brusquely.

?Ms. Lawry, the school district?s new student psychologist. Surely the superintendent informed you of my visit??

Mr. Chutton stood up, scowling at Ms. Lawry. ?No one contacted me about this ?visit? you were having. But there is no need to talk with my students, Ms. Lawry. I can assure you that they are well taken care of.?

Mark turned around and rolled his eyes at the woman, silently informing her that this statement was utter B.S. ?Mr. Chutton,? Ms. Lawry began patiently, looking the principle dead in the eyes. ?I?m required to do this check. If you have a problem with my being here, you can take it up with the school board. Now, if you don?t mind, I?ll begin my visit with talking to Mr. Petrie here.? She pointed to Mark. Mark looked up, startled by the fact that she knew his last name.

Mr. Chutton snorted. ?Listen, lady, I strongly advise against starting with Petrie. He?ll have you running out of here so fast you?ll leave your teeth behind.?

Ms. Lawry took a step closer to him, making the difference in their heights incredibly obvious. Looking down on him, she put a hand on her hip and said, ?Mr. Chutton, with all due respect, I?ve made up my mind.? Pulling Mark out of his seat, she led him down the hall to an office in which he?d never been. She unlocked the door, turned on the lights, and pointed to a seat in front of a large desk. ?Sit there?? she paused for a moment. ?I?m sorry, I didn?t catch your first name,? she said, taking a seat behind her desk.

?Mark. Mark Petrie.? He paused as Ms. Lawry flipped through her papers, searching for his records.

She finished shuffling the documents and turned to face Mark with a somber look on her face. ?Well, Mark, all I plan to do today is??

?Let me guess,? Mark interrupted. ?You?re going to shrink me. Then, once you see that I?m a total nut-job, you?ll cart me off to foster care. Right?? He leaned back in his seat, looking smug.

Ms. Lawry frowned. ?No, all I?m going to do today is talk to you.?

?That?s what I said. You?re going to shrink me.? Slightly irritated, she pursed her lips. ?Did somebody tell you to talk to me specifically?? Mark asked suddenly and accusingly.

Hesitantly, she bit her lip and frowned. ?I?m afraid that?s?classified information, Mark.? She folded her hands under her chin and leaned forward. ?Now, let?s start off with the basics. You seem to be a very?angry person. Did something happen to you in your past??

Mark snorted. ?Yeah, you could say that??

?Does this have anything to do with the fact you live with your?? She checked her charts. ??aunt and her husband??

?Not only is that ?classified information,? it?s also a really long and complicated story that you wouldn?t believe.?

?We have as long as you like.?

Mark just glared at her.

?Alright then, tell me about your parents.?

Sighing, Mark looked up at the ceiling. ?My dad left before I was born,? he began, reciting the information as if he were naming the presidents in order. ?He died along with his parents in a car accident.? Mark blew a puff of air out of the corner of his mouth, making his bangs stand on end for a moment. Then his gaze shifted to the ground. ?My mom?? His voice cracked and lost its edginess, now sounding like a child backed up into a corner. Clearing his throat he began again. ?My mom died two years ago.?

Ms. Lawry stared at him intently, calculating him. ?Were you close with your mother??

?No. It was more the?? He searched for the right word. ?More the _manner_ in which she died.?

After waiting a moment, Ms. Lawry said uncertainly, ?Would you care to elaborate??

That did it. ?Elaborate?? Mark exploded. ?Sure, I?ll elaborate for you. We were in the kitchen, the lights went out, the windows shattered, and then?? He broke off, shuddering. ?He was in my house,? he continued hoarsely. ?My mom, she pushed me behind her. I felt her being lifted off the ground. Next thing I knew, she was on the floor.?

Ms. Lawry stared at him. ?And how???

?He broke her neck by holding her head and twisting her body around like a rag doll.? She gaped at him. ?Want me to spell it out for you? He put her head on backwards.?

Without another word, Mark pushed his chair back and left Ms. Lawry speechless in her office, slamming the door on his way out. He didn?t stop there. Turning the corner, he proceeded to the end of the hall and, without hesitating, walked out the front door of the school.

-----------------------------------------

Mark stood behind the cash register at the gas station convenient store, still fuming. He had been short and angry with the customers, showing little patience and an insulting air of boredom. Most of them left quickly, casting cold glares as they walked out the door. Mark didn?t care. He was glad to see them go.

At half past nine, the bells above the backdoor rang, signaling Mark. ?Hey, Grant,? Mark called sullenly from the cash register. A moment later, a tall albino man walked in behind him.

?Yo, little buddy!? Grant shouted, pounding Mark?s fist. ?How?s it hanging, bro??

Mark smiled a little for the first time that day. Grant?s lingo always cheered him up. Grant Burnett was a twenty-year-old high school dropout who seemed to believe he was an inner-city black guy, which was especially humorous since both his hair and skin were the color of milk. Genetics had left his skin without pigment, thereby christening the term ?albino? upon him. Grant was the only person Mark felt he could trust or rely on; and yet, he had failed to relinquish very little if any at all about his past to his best friend.

When Mark only gave Grant a small smile, it dawned on Grant that something had happened. ?Dude, what?s up with you??

?My homeroom teacher got pissed at me??

?Wow, that?ll make newspaper headlines for sure?? muttered Grant sarcastically, rolling his eyes.

Mark glared at him. ?So he sent me to Chutton?s office,? he continued.

?No. Way.? Grant slapped his hand to his cheek in mock surprise.

?Shut up and let me finish. Anyways, this shrink came in and talked to me. She wanted to know about my mom, so I left,? Mark said with a shrug.

?You left school? You mean, before it let out??

?Yeah, so? You did too!? said Mark, smirking.

Grant gave a loud, booming laugh. ?Quite true, quite true. So, do you wanna talk about it??

?Nah, that?s okay. Could you pick me up here around ten thirty??

?Better make it eleven, little bro. I got a hot date?? Mark grinned. By ?hot date,? Grant meant he had to catch the last hour of the Baywatch Marathon. ?After that, we could go out on the town, get a couple drinks??

Mark raised an eyebrow. ?Grant??

?What??

I just turned sixteen, in case you forgot,? Mark said, grinning.

?You mean the drinking age in California hasn?t been lowered yet? Damn it??

Mark snorted. ?Get outta here, Burnett, or I?ll sick the gas station guard dogs on you.? They pounded fists again and Grant strolled out of the store like he owned the place. He drove past the door, repeatedly honking the horn of his beat-up old 1982 Plymouth Horizon.

Grinning, Mark sat back on his stool behind the cash register. He glanced up at the clock: 9:50. The convenient store was supposed to close at ten. Mark debated whether or not he should close early. He glanced out the window and, seeing no headlights on the road, he got up and walked to the door. Mark was about to turn the ?OPEN? sign to the ?CLOSE? side when a redheaded girl appeared behind the glass door. She glanced at her watch and looked up at him.

?Is the store closed already?? she yelled through the glass.

?Uh, no,? Mark said quickly, opening the door for her. She thanked him and went to the back of the store towards the refrigerators. He watched her, feeling kind of embarrassed. She came back with a bottle of lemonade and a pack of gum. Mark rang up the items on his cash register ($2.04) and waited for her to get out her wallet. She did so, searching for the right amount of change, when a paper dropped out of her pocket and slid beneath the counter.

Mark quickly jumped off his seat and ducked behind the register, reaching under the stand. His fingers grasped the edge of the glossy paper, and he pulled it out. Quickly brushing off the dust and cobwebs that had covered it, he glanced at the paper. It was a brochure, one that had been looked over quite a few times judging by the wrinkled, folded appearance of it. He read the words at the top, and his blood ran cold. _WELCOME TO JERUSALEM?S LOT!_

?Excuse me???

Mark slowly stood up, staring at the title of the brochure. ?Is that ?Salem?s Lot, Maine?? he asked slowly.

?Yeah, you?ve heard of it?? she asked, a look of puzzlement on her face.

?I lived there.?

?Recently??

Mark nodded. ?All my life, up until two years ago.?

She peered at him curiously, examining his face. ?You?re not?you?re not _Mark Petrie_, are you??

He jerked his head up, startled. ?How did you know???

?You were all over the news in Maine,? she said, awestruck. ?Nobody knows where you are. You?re the only known survivor of the ?Salem?s Lot disappearance. Most of the people are missing, but they found your name registered in a hospital or a hotel or something, so everybody?s been wondering??

?Wait.? Mark stared at her. ?What do you mean, ?missing?? They must have found something??

She shook her head. ?You?re the only one ever located. Alive, I mean. They found the remains of a few of people?Dr. James Cody; that teacher, Matthew Burke?a couple others. Most of the people just?vanished.? She shook her head. ?I can?t believe the media never got to you. That?s all anyone was talking about a year ago?? Her voice trailed off.

Mark thought for a moment. ?What about Sheriff Gillespie? He said he was going to Florida and got away before?before things got bad.? He glanced down at the ground, brow furrowed. ?And Larry Crockett, he left the night we set?I mean, before the fires started. What about them??

?Gillespie?s car was found about ten miles outside of town, empty, no trace of him. They never found his body or anything. Larry Crockett was found in the dump. They think?? She hesitated, then leaned towards him. ?They think he was _eaten_,? she said in a low voice.

They were silent for a minute, both immersed in their own thoughts. Then Mark asked, ?How do you have a brochure from ?Salem?s Lot? I mean, the town was burned to the ground.?

She raised her eyebrows. ?Didn?t you hear? The town was restored a little while ago. People started moving in a couple months after that. My family just bought a house there. We?re on our way to Maine right now.? She paused. ?There was a lot of controversy over whether or not it would be right to rebuild the town so soon, and right on top of the original settlement.?

Mark sat down on the stool, shaking his head in disbelief. ?They reconstructed ?Salem?s Lot?? She nodded.

A moment or two of silence, then: ?Can I ask you something?? She bent forward, eyes wide.

Mark glanced up at her. ?Yeah, sure.?

?Did it all happen at once, or did people just start to disappear?? she asked in a low voice.

?One by one. Slowly.?

?What was it??

Mark snorted. ?You wouldn?t believe me even if I told you.?

She stared at him curiously, then she nodded and stood up suddenly, slapping a five down on the counter. ?Keep the change. My family is waiting for me,? she muttered. Then she rushed out of the convenient store without another word, the bell above the door jingling furiously.

Mark sat back on his stool, confused.

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_Jerusalem?s Lot, two years earlier?_

?I?m not afraid of dying, Mr. Mears. Not at all.? Sheriff Gillespie put his hand on top of his car door and cast a weary eye over his shoulder. ?But these people don?t die, do they?? Without another word, he left Mears, Cody, and Mark Petrie behind, along with a certain fate ultimately worse than death.

Sheriff Parkins Gillespie wasn?t a coward. Twenty-five years on the police force, ten of those spent as sheriff, would back this statement up. He really didn?t fear death; he had stared it in the face many times as it took the shape of an angry, violent mob during a rally, a drunken driver during a high-speed police force pursuit, and the long barrel of a shotgun pointed directly at the center of his forehead. No, the sheriff of Jerusalem?s Lot was no coward. But the face of death looks very different than the face of an eternity in Hell. With this is mind, many would understand Parkins?s decision. Some might even agree with it.

The white station wagon flew out of the Lot, reaching speeds of over eighty miles per hour. By the time he reached the beginning of the farm lands, however, the sky was already blotched with patches of inky gray-black. The sun rested lazily on the horizon, suspended for a moment, then dipped underneath the countryside in one quick, fluid movement.

Darkness came?and along with it, the creatures of the night. Parkins slowed down a little once he was out of the five mile radius. He watched the landscape change subtly, moving from flat farm land to gentle slopes, from the slopes to bumpy hills, then to the beginning of the mountains.

The sheriff peered out the window, searching for stars or at least the moon, but only jagged black clouds returned his stare. A memory came to him suddenly: He was sitting next to his daughter (who was eight at the time) at their bay window. Parkins pointed to the stars, then turned to his daughter and said, ?Good thing those stars are out, Jenny. Starless nights are bad luck??

It was going to be a very long ride. Maine to Florida, phew, that would take at least two days. But it would be worth it. He wanted to see his new grandson; play golf with Phil, his son-in-law; reminisce about the good old times with Jenny. He wanted to be able to relax all day without worrying about work But most of all, he wanted to escape.

_?You abandoned them,?_ said that little voice in the back of his head. _?You abandoned Mr. Mears, the doctor, the priest. For God?s sake, you abandoned the boy. You left them behind.?_

?Let Ben Mears play the hero,? he muttered to himself. ?It?s what he?s good at. Besides, they wouldn?t have come even if I had asked?? It was true. Mears most likely would have stuck to his beliefs, trying to convince Parkins to do the same. But the sheriff _had_ clung to his principles: He wanted to get the hell away from the Lot and never come back.

But the kid. Oh, God, how the kid had looked at him through the window of the SUV as he, Parkins, had left. The boy had been so disappointed; no, not even that: shocked. Mark Petrie, he kid with whom he had had so much trouble over the past few years in the Lot, had looked shocked and so?vulnerable, as if he was ten years younger than what he really was. It was an expression the sheriff had never seen on the kid?s face before in his life.

Parkins?s thoughts were interrupted by a barely audible scratching noise coming from the back of the car. A chill went up and down his spine, much like his reaction would be if someone were dragging their nails across a chalkboard. Goosebumps popped up on his forearms and biceps, and his teeth chattered uncontrollably. He tried to take no notice of it, but his heart started hammering irregularly and faster than normal, and sweat was beginning to cover his neck, wrists, and palms. Glancing into the backseat of the car, he found nothing out of the ordinary. _?My mind is playing games with me, that?s all??_ And he left it at that.

The scratching sound stopped for awhile, and Parkins almost forgot about it. The thought was simply a wisp of silly superstition in the back of his mind. He passed a sign that read YOU ARE NOW CROSSING THE CUMBERLAND COUNTY LINE. The sheriff breathed a sigh of relief. It was over.

And then, the scratching again. It was louder this time, and Parkins could no longer pretend that it was his imagination. Something, or someone, was back there. Should he continue driving? To pull over or not to pull over, that is the question. _?Why be stupid now??_ He was smart enough to resist his conscious, leave town, and meet his daughter in Florida. _?Why be stupid now??_

Sheriff Gillespie jerked the steering wheel over and pulled off to the side of the road. He sat there for a moment, trying to understand why he had just done such an idiotically heroic thing. Parkins pulled the keys out of the ignition and put his hand on the door of the car. His breathing accelerated, and beads of perspiration dripped off his forehead. He looked into the backseat of his station wagon one last time before determining that whatever was making the noises was in the trunk. Hesitantly, he grabbed his flashlight out of the front seat compartment and grabbed the handle of the car.

Parkins opened the door to his vehicle and put one foot out onto the gravel. Sliding himself out, he shut the car door slowly and precisely, then turned to stare down the road he had just come off of. It was dark and stormy; the breeze blew some dust from the fields across the road and into the forest to his right. Taking a deep breath, Parkins took a couple steps towards the back of his car. The wind howled, as if protesting his actions. Ignoring the warning, he placed his key in the keyhole and opened the trunk.

For a moment, the sheriff thought he saw two shiny orbs in the far corner of his trunk. He blinked, and they were gone. He grabbed the flashlight that lay right inside the trunk and shone it towards the dark nooks and crannies. A small bundle of blankets sat in the back. He had never seen them before, and had no use for them. Someone had put them inside his trunk on purpose?

?What the??? he muttered out loud. Shaking, Parkins opened the blankets slowly.

The McDougall baby lay inside.

For one hopeful instant, he thought the baby was dead. Then, it opened its pale, beady eyes and hissed, its hideously long fangs bared.

The sheriff screamed and screamed.


	3. On the Run

**CHAPTER TWO**

"Mark…"

Mark resisted.

"Mark!" The voice was more urgent.

He squeezed his eyes shut, blocking it out.

"Mark! Besides being a no-account, good-for-nothing smart aleck, do you suffer from impaired hearing and narcolepsies, too, Mr. Petrie?"

Mark looked up and met his teacher's eyes. "I'm sorry, Mr. Gibbs, I'm afraid I dozed off. Would you mind repeating the question?" he said, putting on an overly-sweet smile.

Mr. Gibbs glared at Mark, then asked very articulately, "Why is it more effective to have two major political parties in America?"

"'Cause if we only had one, then they could impose their own laws and such on the American public without the opposition of another party," Mark said in a monotone, then slumped back onto his desk.

The loudspeaker above Mr. Gibbs's desk crackled, indicating someone was trying to get through. Moments later: "Is M…Pe…rie there?" a woman asked, the static jumbling her words. Mr. Gibbs got the message anyway.

"Yes, he is. Should he report to the office?" Mr. Gibbs replied, smiling to himself.

"No, …to Ms. L…ry's gui…offi…dow…hall fr…Chut…'s roo…" There was a click, and the loud speaker turned off.

Mr. Gibbs, who was at a loss from the last communication, turned to find Mark's seat empty and the door swinging shut. Mark knew exactly where he was supposed to go, and he wasn't happy about it. A minute later, he arrived in front of Ms. Lawry's office. Ms. Lawry sat regally behind her big oak desk, chin resting leisurely on her right hand. The corners of her mouth turned upward slightly as he walked through the doorway.

"Why the hell did you call me back down here?" Mark shouted, slamming the door. "You said you were just doing a routine check of the school, not a full out psych ward check!"

Ms. Lawry cocked an eyebrow and smirked. "If you must know, that whole "student visit" was a little white lie to Principal Chutton. I was called in to talk to you, specifically, by the school nurse who noticed some bruises on your arms and neck during your yearly physical. She also informed me not to tell Mr. Chutton because…" Ms. Lawry smiled in spite of herself. "Because due to some…previous encounters, he would probably not be very sympathetic towards you."

Mark was stunned, both by her deception and her honesty. Once he recovered from his shock, he turned to leave when Ms. Lawry called out, "I can help you, Mark."

Clenching his jaw, he turned around and said, "I seriously doubt that."

She stood and walked towards him slowly. "I may not be able to solve all your problems, but I can get you out of your aunt and uncle's house." Mark paused. "That's what you really want, right?"

For one optimistic moment, Mark almost believed she could. Then he sighed. "There's just one tiny with that plan." Ms. Lawry raised her eyebrows. "They have my money."

"Easily fixed, Mark. Once you are taken out of custody, they can't legally…"

"No, 'legal' is exactly the dilemma. Because 'legally'…" Mark stopped. His eyes gleamed, showing her that he was immersed in his thoughts. Finally, he looked up at her. "If I tell you something, do you swear not to use it against me?" he asked, frowning at her.

"Scout's Honor…as long as it isn't a danger to you or anyone else," she replied, holding up the two-finger Girl Scout pledge sign.

Mark nodded hesitantly. "All right. Legally, it isn't really my money. And if this whole thing went to court…"

"What do you mean, it isn't your money? Whose is it?" Mark didn't answer. "Mark, how much are we talking about here, exactly?"

"Well, I don't know exactly…"

"A rough estimate, then."

"Well, I'm not sure how much anymore, but two years ago it was…seventy grand." He rushed the last part, hoping she wouldn't catch it.

She did.

"Seventy…grand…" she whispered, taking a step backwards.

Mark nodded. "Yeah, I had seventy grand, but Alan and Joyce wouldn't take me in unless I paid them fifty thousand of it. They don't know about the rest."

"How, may I ask, did you come up with all this money?" Ms. Lawry asked, her breathing somewhat labored.

Mark stared at her hard. "Do you want me to tell you the story?"

Ms. Lawry met his gaze steadily, nodding.

He took a deep breath. "Before I came here, I lived in a town in Derry, Maine called Jerusalem's Lot, or just 'Salem's Lot for short. I swear, there were no more than five hundred people. I think that might be why…" Mark's voice drifted off. "Anyway, there was a… an incident there two years ago. Almost everybody died."

"Five hundred people just…died?" she repeated, shocked at the figure. "Surely there had to be some survivors…"

"Yeah. One." Ms. Lawry stared at him. "After the…event…me and this other guy, Ben Mears, tracked down the…"

"Wait. Do you mean Ben Mears, that author who wrote about Afghanistan?"

Mark nodded. "We tracked down Callahan, the guy who was, well, at least somewhat responsible. Father Callahan…a priest…was working in a soup kitchen in Colorado. They had a struggle and then fell out of a window three stories high. Ben passed away later in the hospital. Callahan…" Mark hesitated. "He died instantly."

This was the first lie he had told Ms. Lawry. For some reason, he felt compelled to tell her the story of 'Salem's Lot. Maybe not the all of it, but at least the important parts. In truth, Mark had killed Callahan in his hospital bed, suffocating him with a pillow. He was silent for a moment, remembering the expression of true shock and utter fear on the priest's face when Mark entered the priest's hospital room. Father Callahan had tried to reason with him, saying, "Could you live with yourself after killing a priest? Remember, I saved your life!"

Staring at him with a grave, sober look, Mark responded, "No you didn't. Father Callahan did." He descended upon Callahan, pressing the cushion to the priest's face. "And you're not Father Callahan."

Mark recalled Callahan's final moments, with his face growing steadily redder and his hands clawing madly at the air, scratching Mark across the neck. Then, his last words, choked and strained: _"They'll find you someday, boy…"_ Then, Callahan's skin turned bluish-black and his veins became more pronounced. But his glassy eyes did not bulge as Mark suspected they would; instead, they seemed to shrink within his head until they looked like shiny marbles embedded in Callahan's saggy eye sockets. A single breath, slow and restrained, left his mouth like a faucet leaking water.

_Hissss…_

"You still haven't explained how you got all that money…although I have a guess…" Ms. Lawry began.

"Alright, so I took it from Ben. Before we found Callahan, we went to the bank and he withdrew most of the money that he had received from his Pulitzer Prize. It was about…" Mark looked up at the ceiling, calculating the amount in his head. "Eighty thousand. But he would have wanted me to take it!" Mark said defensively when he saw Ms. Lawry's accusing stare. "In fact, Ben said that if anything happened to him, I should take the car and the money and go. I think he forgot that I didn't have a driver's license…" Mark shook his head, eyes closed. "If you had known Ben, you would've believed me."

"I _do_ believe you, Mark." He glanced up at her doubtfully, eyebrows raised. "But the court…"

"Yeah, that's the problem. There's no way a judge would sign over fifty grand to a punk-ass kid like me," Mark said, smirking.

Ms. Lawry gave him a small smile. "That's what I was getting at. And don't swear."

-----------------------------------------****

****

_Dearest Mark,_

_Greetings from Maine, young grandson! I would not be surprised if this letter comes as a shock to you. Your mother, I imagine, told you I was dead. Perhaps I should start at the beginning…_

_When my only daughter told me she planned to leave home and elope with your father, Henry Petrie, we had a heated and ultimately devastating argument. She left with feelings of utmost hatred and contempt, and she did not even tell me that she was pregnant with you. When your father left your mother, she was distraught, but she refused to come to me for aid. I did not, until very recently, even know of your existence._

_When I learned of your mother's tragic death, I was horrified. Through some contacts who had connections with the 'Salem's Lot incident, I learned that the only survivor was one Mark Petrie. Upon seeing the last name, I knew immediately that you were my grandson. With some difficulty, I was able to track down your current address._

_I am writing to you for many reasons, but the most essential one is this: I ask you to come live in my home here in your place of birth, Jerusalem's Lot. If staying here does not suit you, I would be more than willing to move elsewhere once my affairs are in order. Do not worry about the money: My late husband owned a successful business, and when he passed on, I received a small fortune. You may write back to me at the address written on the front of the envelope, inviting me to come and pick you up. Please let me know as soon as possible. I look forward to hearing from you shortly!_

_Your loving Grandmother,_

_Suzette Marie Bellefonte_

Mark had found the letter, addressed to him, open on the kitchen table. After reading it, he stumbled onto the couch, stunned and a little dizzy. He had a grandmother? For two years, he had believed that Joyce and Alan were the only relatives he had in the world. Now, he had an opportunity to escape without the legal mess. "Do not worry about the money…" It was if she knew that money was the only thing he had to be anxious about.

He literally ran to the desk in the corner of the room, drew out a sheet of paper and a pen, and was about to begin the invitation when he thought of something: What if it was a prank? Or the obsession of a crazy nut who read about him in the papers? The girl at the convenient store had said that Mark was all over the news in Maine. It was quite possible that someone who had a few loose screws decided to track him down and write a letter to him, claiming to be his grandmother. For all Mark knew, the writer of the note could be a serial killer…

At the thought of serial killers, a memory shone through in his mind: He was in the kitchen of the Marsten House with Suzie Norton. Mark was talking about how to kill the head vampire, when Susan asked, "What if Barlow is just an ordinary serial killer?"

Mark remembered his response: "You wish."

"What if" questions flooded his mind, each more frightening but ultimately ridiculous than the rest. The question that sat most heavily on mind, however, was an uplifting one: What if it was true? What if he had a grandmother (a rich one, at that) waiting for him in Maine? It was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, a chance to get away from Alan and Joyce without worrying about his fifty thousand dollars. Mark put away the paper slowly. Another question: What if this Suzette Marie Bellefonte was just as bad as Alan? Unlikely, but possible. She was probably just a nice, little old lady who was a bit lonely. But Mark wouldn't let himself get too optimistic. Hope was just a setup for a disappointment.

Mark didn't bother checking to see if anyone was in the apartment. He already knew no one was: Joyce always went to the store around the time Mark got back from school, and Alan wouldn't be expected home from his binge drinking until after dark. Glancing up at the clock, Mark quickly calculated he had approximately forty-five minutes until his aunt would return home. Even with this extra amount of time, he rushed to his closet and pulled out his few belongings: a couple sets of clothing, his messenger bag (the only thing he had from 'Salem's Lot), and the notebook in which he wrote the rest of Ben's story. He closed the door to the closet, turned around, and ran smack into something. Something large.

Alan stood behind him, barring Mark's way. His eyes were unusually clear and focused on Mark. Even without beer, he was as dangerous as a raging bear. Alan glanced down at the pile of belongings Mark held in his arms, then slowly raised his eyes to Mark's face. "What are you doing?" Alan growled, his voice full of suspicion.

Mark was about to turn his gaze to his uncle's shoes, mutter something along the lines of "Nothing…", when two years of holding in anger suddenly burst out of him like pressure exploding from a shaken can of soda. He looked his uncle dead in the face and said, "I'm packing my stuff and getting the hell out of here."

Alan blinked stupidly, then narrowed his eyes. Snorting like an angry bull, he grabbed Mark by the back of the neck and tossed him clear out of the hall and into the TV room. Mark landed on his back, then jumped up with an energy that surprised even himself. Alan came stomping out of the hall, eyes wide with rage, shoulders squared. Mark secured his footing, clenching his fists so tight that the color in his knuckles began to drain. His uncle was four feet away…three…two…one…_wham_.

Mark swung back hit Alan's jaw square beneath the chin. He felt his uncle's teeth break above his fist and saw the blood and spit fly from his mouth as if they were going in slow motion. Alan fell to the ground with a tremendous crash, shaking the entire apartment. But he wasn't giving up that easily. Getting to his feet, Alan let out an inhuman roar and took a hold of the top of Mark's head. Pulling him back towards the wall, Alan almost ripped a chunk of Mark's wavy brown hair out of his head, when Mark reached back behind him blindly, groping for any part of his uncle's head that he could find. He finally got a hold around his forehead and squeezed Alan's eye sockets with his thumbs. His uncle screamed and staggered backwards before losing his balance. He kept his grasp on Mark, however, and they both fell backwards.

Scrambling to get up, Mark grabbed the ledge of the desk and, fumbling, grasped onto the first thing he could find. Good fortune was with him: it was a sharp letter opener. He got to his feet unsteadily, then whipped around and turned the blade on his uncle.

"I'm leaving," Mark said, his heart hammering. Beads of sweat dripped into his eyes. He blinked them away furiously. "And I'm taking my money with me." He glared down at his uncle, who had a steady stream of blood flowing down his chin from the corner of his mouth. Alan tried to get up, but Mark took a step towards him and jabbed the knife at him threateningly. "Try anything funny…" Mark started. "Get me the cash right now, or so help me, I'll jam this thing down your throat."

Alan looked fiercely at Mark, and for a second, Mark almost lost his nerve. Then, he stepped closer to his uncle and growled, "Now." Alan, defeated and bloody, got to his feet after some difficulty and led Mark down the hall. Mark kept the letter opener pressed to his uncle's back as the door to Alan's room opened and they went inside. Alan got a key out of his dresser, reached under his bed, and pulled out a small metal box. He unlocked it and took out a wad of cash. Mark grabbed it from him and flipped through the bills. "Did you spend any of it?"

"Yeah. Ten grand."

Mark glanced around at the condition of the shambled and dirty room and asked, "On what?"

Narrowing his eyes, Alan muttered, "Beer. The rent and the bills. Lottery tickets."

"You had fifty grand. How much more did you expect to win in the lottery?" Alan shrugged, eyes glazed. "Why didn't you buy a new home, or at least fix up the one you have?"

"Listen, as long as I have my beer and my TV, I don't give a shit what my house looks like. Now if you don't get the hell out of my house, I call the cops. "

Mark stuffed the money into his jeans pocket and shouldered his messenger bag stuffed with clothes. Keeping the letter opener pointed directly at the exhausted and conquered Alan, he backed slowly out of the apartment.

-----------------------------------------

_Maine, two and a half years earlier…_

_'Hungry…so hungry…feed…need to feed…'_ It crept slowly up the riverbank, leading the mass out of the water. Eyes gleaming, it clutched a trout in its teeth and devoured it. The cluster watched the blood trickle slowly down into the river, and one pounced. The guide spun around and gripped its attacker with its elongated fangs. The lesser yelped and scampered back to the pack. The one who had once been known as Sheriff Parkins Gillespie signaled the rest of the herd to follow it, circling around the town like the scavengers they were.

_'Need…blood…soon…very soon…'_

For almost two years, the cycle had been the same: Take one, any of them, but just one. Every week. Surrounding communities had noticed the disappearances, and some families decided to leave. The small pack was forced to feed on animals, a loathsome act. The blood of animals could not satisfy the driving, forceful hunger…the need…

Then the message from The Other. It had appeared a year after the rest of the vampires had been destroyed. Arriving subtly, like a whisper through the leaves, it brought tidings of great prosperity. 'It's coming…' From the east…someone who could help them, direct them. Without a leader, they were lost. They could not work together, plan attacks on an entire town. When this new One came, they would strike, hard. Strong. It was so close, they could feel it, smell it. There would be two; one to act as scout, one to lead…to command the rest.

The pack was getting anxious. They could tell something was happening, something important. Hunched over, they stared at their guide, eyes shining dangerously. _"Is it here?"_ they asked.

_"Almost…nearly…"_

Then, instantaneously, it arrived. Like rain on a clear day, the presence surmounted the group with a powerful blow, physically overwhelming. They lay flat on the ground, panting, eyes shining brightly. Anticipation was in the air, circling like a vulture.

Gillespie looked around at them, an expression not unlike a disturbing smile spread across its face.

_"We will dine well tonight."_

_California, Present Day_

The loud, incessant pounding at the door had been continuing for over a minute. A tired and befuddled Grant opened the door a crack and rubbed his eyes. He was wearing long pajama bottoms and a long robe that was patched and frayed. Apparently, he had been sleeping. "Mark? Dude, what…why are you here?" he said, squinting at him.

"I'll explain as soon as you open the door."

Grant fumbled with the chain above his door and invited Mark in. "This had better be good…I was just in the middle of my afternoon nap." He let out a wide and noisy yawn.

Mark sat down on the raggedy old couch. "I'm leaving. I'm going back to the Lot." Grant blinked in surprise. "Please? I need a ride." Mark paused. "And I want you to come with me."

Suddenly wide awake, Grant stared down at Mark, hardly believing what he was hearing. "And where, pray tell, are we going?" he asked dubiously, eyebrow raised questioningly.

"Maine."

Utterly baffled, Grant blurted out, "Why?"

"Because I'm not going to let an opportunity to live with people other than Alan and Joyce pass me by," Mark said, frowning. "I need to get to Maine as soon as physically possible.

Grant stared at Mark like he was crazy. "Listen, man, that may be all well and good for you, but I've got a life here, and a decent one at that. I mean, I have my own apartment, a job…"

"Does selling soda and gum at the convenient store make more than forty thousand a year?"

"No, of course not, but…" Mark took the wad of cash out of his pocket and threw it to Grant. Flipping threw the roll of money, Grant's eyes grew wide. "Alright, when do we leave?"

-----------------------------------------

_"Mark…"___

Mark's eyelids flew open.

_"Open the window…"___

He rolled over and looked out the window, hardly daring to believe what he was seeing.

It was Danny Glick…well, sort of. He was hovering at the window, dark circles around his shining, eerie eyes. From all the books he read about vampires, Mark could tell Danny was no longer living; he was in the midst of the undead. His sharp claws scraped the glass, producing a piercing screech.

_"C'mon, Mark, open the window…"_ Mark turned over onto his side, trying to convince himself that this was a dream. _"Mark…open the window, Mark!"_ Mark's breathing became labored, his pulse taking off. _"It's not just me, Mark. __He commands it. It's cold out here..."___

Mark swung his legs over the side of his bed and stood up.

_"Open the window, Mark…"___

Turning on the light, Mark pressed his hands over his ears and began muttering a prayer under his breath. "Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep. Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep…_What do you want?"_ he shouted through the glass.

Slowly, Mark lowered his hands. He quickly grabbed a cross-shaped tombstone from the graveyard scene he had built that sat next to his bed.

_"C'mon, open the window…or I'll try another one…"___

Mark took a deep breath and stared at Danny Glick. Clutching the cross, he breathed, "Ok. Come in."

The window flew open and Danny soared in, fangs bared. He leaned over Mark, ready to bite, when Mark pressed the cross onto Danny's cheek. Mark's heart beat was so loud that he feared it was as piercing as his breathing, which had grown steadily more audible. Danny screamed…it was a horrendous noise, full of pain, anger, and terror. Mark's breathing had turned into a desperate groan. The vampire took off backwards out of the open window, but not before shouting "I'll kill you, Petrie, and your mother!" Mark stood by the window, watching the dark shape fly threw the air, his shrieks echoing through the night sky.

Then, suddenly, he heard something behind him.

_"Mark…"___

'Not again…' Mark thought in terror. He turned slowly, then…

"Mark!"

Mark opened his eyes and turned his head to face Grant. The sky was an inky black, with few stars apparent behind the dark clouds. An orange harvest moon was rising out of the trees in the distance. "What time is it?" Mark asked, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hands.

"About eleven o'clock. I was just going to say that we have to pull over soon because I'm about to keel over from exhaustion." Mark nodded absentmindedly, still reminiscing about his dream. The Danny Glick incident was the most recurrent visualization that haunted his sleep, though many images floated through his mind nowadays.

"There's a motel right up the road, or we could just sleep in the car. You're going to have to start reading the map tomorrow, 'cause I only know my way to the border of Nevada. After that, we're in No Man's Land. Dig me?"

Smiling to himself, Mark said, "We have all the money we need to rent a really nice room, two if you want. But the car sounds fine to me, too. You decide." Grant answered by pulling off the exit and driving into the parking lot of a cozy-looking hotel. The illuminated red 'Vacancy' sign glowed almost unnaturally bright, temporarily blinding Mark when he saw it.

They got out of the car, and Grant yawed broadly and stretched. A breeze blew past Mark's face, and he shivered involuntarily. Crossing his arms over his chest and hugging himself tightly to keep warm, he said, "Better hurry up and get your stuff before I freeze to death out here."

Once inside, Grant bought a room for eighty dollars while Mark sat on one of the chairs and read a brochure. It read "Ely: Home of the Copper Rush!" in big, green letters across the top. Mark became increasingly bored with each turn of the page, until something caught his eye that made him shudder.

_"One of the biggest mysteries in Nevada took place just ten miles from Ely: the mass disappearance and 'death scene' of the isolated suburban town of Fairview. On April 14th, 1969, the local sheriff at Ely attempted to get in touch with the small police force in Fairview. Hours later, he, along with almost twenty of his officers, were reported missing after heading to what appeared to authorities to be a 'ghost town'. A little while earlier, it had been home to over five thousand civilians. After an outbreak of vanishings went unsolved for almost a year, natives to Ely learned to stay away from Fairview. The disappearances are still being researched today, with theories ranging from a secret government project to extra-terrestrials. These rumors, however, have never been proven…"___

Vampires.

Mark didn't know how or why he knew, but he did. Intuition, maybe. A mass disappearance? People entering a town, but never leaving? Mark read the statistic again: five thousand civilians. Was a group of vampires really capable of such destruction? 'Salem's Lot had been overtaken in only a few days, so it could only be assumed they were.

"Ready to go?" Grant asked, turning around. "I booked two rooms, just so we have enough space. The accommodations are kind of small…"

Mark nodded, distracted. He was still thinking about the brochure. Ten miles from here…for a town full of vampires, that seemed a little too close for comfort.

We also get free breakfast tomorrow, so I figured, 'Hey! Let's chow down!' Then I remembered paying for a breakfast wouldn't really matter, being that we have forty thousand bucks!…"

Mark saw the apparition of Danny Glick, floating next to his window…

"But then again, we should save up…I could buy a new car…"

'C'mon, Mark…'

"And with the gas prices skyrocketing…"

'Open the window…or I'll try another one…'

"But we only have about four more days of driving, maybe less if we don't stop anymore…Wait, you don't have a license…"

'I'll kill you , Petrie, and your mother!'

"SHUT UP!"

Grant looked over at Mark, startled. Mark was on his knees in front of the chair, hands over his ears. His breathing was labored, and sweat was visible on his forehead. "What? What did I say?" Grant asked, confused and sort of hurt.

Not…you…" Mark said through gritted teeth. His eyes were focused on the coffee table in front of him, but he wasn't seeing it. What he was seeing was Danny Glick shooting off backwards out of his bedroom window…Barlow breaking into the kitchen and climbing the walls, then picking up his mother and twisting her neck around…Straker's body, swinging upside down from the Marsten House bedroom, bled white…Then the voice in the basement…

"I admire you, boy…come down for a taste…there's enough of you for two of us…" Then, suddenly, he felt hands around his neck…they were choking him; he couldn't breathe. Barlow's face swam in front of his eyes, mouth wide, fangs ready to bite…

Mark gave an unconscious shudder and collapsed onto the floor.

-----------------------------------------

He awoke hours later, alone. Blinking, he looked around the room and came to the conclusion that he had no idea where he was or how he had gotten there. Mark threw the blankets off himself and slid out of bed. There, he came to another conclusion: He couldn't stand. Clutching the bed, he pulled himself back up, startled and bewildered. Gently rubbing the muscles in his legs, he bent his knees. They worked fine. He just couldn't support himself. "I'm just tired…" he muttered to himself.

Gingerly, he tried getting out of bed again. He held on to the side table for support, and managed to walk slowly to the dresser on the other side of the room. Mark grasped it, and took a few seconds to recuperate. He raised his head and looked into the mirror. For a second, his mind didn't comprehend what he was perceiving. Then his eyes grew wide with fear.

Long, red claw marks were slashed across Mark's neck, and two hand prints had been engraved into his skin below them. They looked almost as if they had been burned there, with flakes of his own skin hanging off of his neck. He remembered the night before: he had been strangled by two unseen hands, presumably by Barlow, whose face had been leering at him. Then his legs had buckled beneath him…and he had awoken here, in a room he had never seen before.

_Thump, thump, thump._

Someone was at the door. Mark, still suspicious, called out, "What?", only all that came out was a low, raspy cough. He tried again. "Who is it?"

"It's Grant…hurry up and open the door before I drop everything!"

Mark hobbled to the door and fumbled with the lock. Opening the door, he saw a harried Grant with boxes of cereal and breakfast bars in his arms. "Room service!" he said, grinning. "What happened with you last night, bro?"

Shrugging, Mark quickly changed the subject. "Where'd you get all this stuff?"

Grant's smile turned into a scowl. He dumped the boxes on Mark's bed. "This," he said, indicating the cereal and bars, "is what they mean by 'complimentary breakfast.' I could have bought better food with two bucks!"

Mark picked up a box of cereal that read 'Crunchy Munchies' in bold, orange letters at the top. A cartoonish-looking frog sat beneath the title, complete with a speech bubble that said, "Yum!" Mark opened the box and found a half-filled bag of small brown flakes that looked and smelled very stale. The breakfast bars were no better: Mark tried to bend the "Soft & Chewy" bar with his hands, but he probably would have had more luck twisting a crowbar. After hitting it repeatedly against the bedpost, he gave up and said, "How about we just go to the grocery store?"

Grant nodded. "Anything's better than this crap…"

A half-hour later, they were on the road with a car filled with snacks and junk food. Mark sat in the passenger seat with the map, subconsciously rubbing his neck with his left hand. The scratches hadn't gotten any less noticeable; if anything, they were more evident.

"What's on your neck?" Grant asked, peering at the long red lines.

"I…must have scratched myself when I fell," Mark said hurriedly. He quickly dropped his hand to the map and started tracing their road with his finger. "We should be getting to the intersection between Routes 6 and 93 soon…"

They drove in silence for what seemed to be eons. Mark would occasionally catch Grant glancing at his scars, but he would quickly avert his eyes, staring intently at the road. Sleep didn't come easily for Mark even though he had only slept for four or five hours. Whenever he closed his eyes, he saw Barlow's leering, evil face…or the decaying, clay-like face of his mother, lying on the kitchen floor with her head on backwards.

Grant was uncharacteristically quiet, looking out the front of the window. He would occasionally switch on the radio; then, a couple seconds later, turn it off again. Grant also constantly bit his nails, a habit that Mark had never noticed before. His elongated, white fingers would work their way up Grant's face slowly. First, he would scratch his nose, rub his eye, or pull his earlobe inattentively, then his fingers would subtly move over his lips, like a spider on its prey.

"What happened last night?" Grant asked, hours after they had left the hotel.

"I…I don't know."

"It seemed like you were choking…your breathing was all weird and your face was turning purple…I thought you were dying or something." Grant looked over at Mark, an expression almost like fear on his pale face. But it wasn't fear of the event; it was like Grant was afraid of Mark. "But those scratches on your neck…did you do that to yourself? Subconsciously, maybe?"

Mark stared out the window. "Have you ever heard of stigmata?"

Grant snorted. "You're talking to the eleventh-grade drop-out, here." He sighed. "No, what is stigmata, Mark?" he asked in a sing-song voice.

Mark swallowed, but it felt like his saliva was being dripped down a tube of sandpaper. He cleared his throat. "Stigmata is when things happen to you just because you think about it. Like on Good Friday, some religious people bleed from holes in their hands and feet like Jesus, just from praying or something. I think maybe these cuts…" He traced one with his finger. "These cuts might be from that."

"You were thinking about somebody choking you?" Mark nodded. "Why? Was it Alan?

Mark shook his head. "No. It was…someone else." Grant waited for him to continue. When he saw Mark was done explaining, Grant turned his eyes back to the road, hands pressed steadfastly on the steering wheel in the ten o'clock and two o'clock positions.

Silence followed them until dark.


	4. Jerusalem's Lot

**CHAPTER THREE**

The doorbell of the apartment was a shrill, annoying sound, and since it was interrupting the football game on television, Alan was forced to get up and answer the door. "I'm coming, I'm coming…keep your pants on…" he grumbled.

He opened the door to find an unusually tall black woman standing there, her wide, handsome face seeming to shine from a light that didn't physically exist. She held out her hand, the faintest trace of a smile on her lips.

"Mr. Thornton?"

"What do you want?" Alan sneered.

"I'm here to ask you about Mark. He's…"

"Wait a sec. Who're you?"

"I'm the high school's psychologist. I've been seeing Mark everyday for the past week, but when he missed the last two days…"

Alan's eyes widened and his mouth twisted into an ugly frown. "You've been seeing Mark? Why wasn't I notified of this?"

Ms. Lawry returned his gaze steadily. "These meetings have a strict confidentiality code, Mr. Thornton. If we believe one of our students has a problem at home, it's our job to deal with it in the best way possible. I was informed by an employee of the school that Mark was carrying signs of abuse. I thought it could be related to the fact that he was recently involved in a tragic accident and now was in the care of two people with whom, prior to the death of his mother, he had never been acquainted."

"You think I hurt him." It wasn't a question; it was a statement, and an accusatory one at that.

"Listen, sir, I'm required by law to step in when a child exhibits signs of abuse. Teenagers typically don't receive bruises on their arms and necks from falling out of trees or playing sports!"

"Get out of my home." Alan said, his voice dangerously low.

"I'll leave when you give me some answers, Mr. Thornton. Now then, if you didn't hurt Mark, who did?" The snarl on Alan's face deepened. Ms. Lawry glanced around his massive shoulders. "Where is Mark, anyway? I came to speak to him in the first place."

Alan pursed his lips. "Not here. The little bastard left Saturday."

"Left?" Ms. Lawry said in shock. "Why?"

Glaring at her, he cocked his eyebrow. "How should I know? The kid's a nut. Threatening me with a knife, taking my money…"

Ms. Lawry's eyes narrowed. "Your money?" she sneered. "Correct me if I'm wrong, Mr. Thornton, but I believe that fifty grand is Mark's to begin with."

Alan gave her a smirk and said, "I don't know what you're talking about."

Ms. Lawry frowned. "I think you do."

The smirk disappeared and was replaced by a scowl. "It's my word against his. What kind of judge, or jury for that matter, would believe that kid anyway?"

"How about I just show them the bruises on his neck and let them decide for themselves how he got them?"

Alan took a menacing step towards her. The vein on his temple stood out, pulsing, and a muscle on his forehead twitched slightly. His arm shot out suddenly and grabbed her wrist. "Get out of my house or I'll wring your neck with one hand," he snarled.

Ms. Lawry's eyes burned holes into Alan's face. "Not until I find out what's going on around here, Mr. Thornton." She yanked herself free of his grasp and strode inside.

"Get back here!" Alan growled. You can't just barge into someone's house like this without a warrant!" He stomped after her and, with one quick movement, blocked her path with his body.

"You let me by, or I'll have you arrested for assault and battery, not to mention child abuse," she hissed. She was about to try and push him out of the way when something on the table next to her caught her eye: an envelope addressed to Mark. She picked it up slowly.

"That came a day before he left," said a raspy voice from behind her. Ms. Lawry turned and saw a woman in the doorway of the apartment. "He went to live with his grandmother." The woman took a few steps toward her.

Joyce reached out and plucked the envelope from Ms. Lawry's grasp. She held it up and pointed to the top left-hand corner. "You'll find him at that address." Ms. Lawry gazed down into Joyce's dark eyes. They were glazed and shiny with a treacherous anger.

"Go next door to the Mason's. Ask to use their phone…tell them it's an emergency. Call the police and have them come here." Joyce's voice became strained and higher. "Have them come here and take him away." She stretched out one long, bony finger and turned it to Alan. "Tell them what he did to Mark."

Alan bolted to the other side of the room and opened a drawer beneath the coffee table. Inside was a hand gun. He snatched it up and held it before him, pointing it at Joyce with a shaking hand.

Joyce opened her mouth and began to scream with laughter, a horrible cackle that rang through the apartment. "Going to shoot me, sweetie?" Alan clutched the gun with two hands.

"Go ahead. Right here." She placed a clenched fist over the left side of chest, her eyes gleaming as she stared at Alan with an insane eagerness.

"Pull the trigger, darling."

Alan took a step backwards, sweat dripping down his face like water from a leaky faucet.

"Pull it."

Ms. Lawry had backed up against the wall, the envelope clutched in her hand. She was slowly edging along the wall towards the door.

"PULL IT!"

There was a tremendous crack like a whip, and time seemed to stand still. Joyce stood frozen in the middle of the room, eyes wide and glassy. A smile crept onto her lips, and she crumpled to the floor. Blood seeped from a hole in the center of her chest, creating a dark scarlet pool on the carpet.

_"Ohhh…"_

Ms. Lawry gave a low moan, unable to move. Both she and Alan remained motionless, rooted to the spot. Then Alan straightened up and turned to face her, gun still in hand.

Swiftly, Ms. Lawry dashed out the door. Alan rushed after her, but by the time he got out of the apartment, she was a floor beneath him and rapidly descending the rest of the stairs.

"If I ever see your face again," Alan shouted down to her, "you'll end up worse than her! And if you say anything to the police…" he screamed in emphasis, "your precious little Mark will wind up with his head on backwards, just like his mother!" He spun around furiously and turned back to see something fluttering to the floor of the apartment.

The envelope lay crumpled in the doorway.

-----------------------------------------

"Where is it?" Mark muttered under his breath, searching frantically through his messenger bag, flashlight tucked under his chin.

Grant took his eyes off the road and glanced down at him. "Where's what, bro?"

"The envelope." He threw a pair of baggy jeans to the floor of the car. "I need that envelope so I know where the heck we're going!"

"Calm down, man. When did you notice you didn't have it?"

"When we passed that sign back there…" He looked back at the setting sun behind them.

Mark hadn't thought of checking for the envelope before leaving because honestly, he had forgotten about it. He had left in such a rush that he hadn't made sure he had brought everything.

Then they had crossed the Derry County line.

'Salem's Lot was located in the northern section of Derry, a very forested and remote part of eastern Maine. The few towns that existed in Derry were small and separated from each other by wide mountains and lakes so large one could not see the other shore. The familiarity of the Maine landscape flooded back to him as they had passed under that bold green "Derry Exit" sign.

Grant went up over a hill, a great feat for his 1982 Horizon. Then they came to the mountain that surrounded a large portion of 'Salem's Lot. At approximately three thousand feet above sea level, Glower's Range was the physical barrier that almost isolated 'Salem's Lot from just about everything else. The town, however, was located almost five miles inward, enclosed within a thick forest and wide fields.

Thump, thump, thump-thump. The car was having a few technical difficulties. "C'mon, old girl, only a couple miles to go. You can do it…it's just an itty-bitty hill…" Grant patted the dashboard of his car. It gave a low rumble and shuddered in response. Mark glanced at the speedometer: They were rapidly losing speed. Forty miles an hour…thirty…twenty-five…twenty…fifteen…

At the top of the mountain, the Horizon gave one last thump and died. Grant pounded on the steering wheel. "No, no, no! Shit…" He had hit his knuckle against the corner between the dashboard and the glass, and his hand had a small gash. A trickle of blood dripped down the back of his hand.

Mark looked over at Grant's wound. "You have to learn to control your temper, bud," he said, grinning.

Grant looked over at him stonily. "Ha, ha. I think I have some napkins or tissues in the back of the car. Get them for me before I bleed to death." Mark turned around and clambered over the seat, reaching down into Grant's backpack, while Grant got out of the car and checked under the hood.

_Crack._ A twig snapped outside of the car in the woods next to the road. Mark twisted his head around to look out the window. Blackness stared back, enfolding him. Straining his eyes, he thought he could almost make out two indistinct white orbs, like eyes, in the distance. They were wavering there, moving ever so slightly. Then they suddenly vanished, like lightning, and rematerialized ten yards closer to the car. The moonlight illuminated the owner of the eyes for a moment before again disappearing into the night.

Mark gasped in horror. He unrolled Grant's window manually. "There's someone out…" he began to shout; then he froze. A figure stood motionless by the side of the road. It appeared to be human, yet not human. The body shape was right, but somehow its appearance, the movements of the creature made Mark believe it was…something more. And its eyes, its eyes were the color of the moon, shining without any light. Then, suddenly, it was hunched over outside the car, right next to Mark. It looked up at him and gave a twisted, evil grin.

Without any hesitation, Mark's hand dove into his pocket and retrieved the cross-shaped gravestone that he had carried every day for the past two years. He pressed it against the window, and a moan escaped his lips. The creature crossed its arms against its face in terror, then, hissing, retreated into the woods. Mark watched it flee, his heart pounding painfully fast.

"Did you get the tissues?" Grant asked, climbing back into the car.

Mark, who's breathing was still labored, turned to stare at him. "Didn't you see that?" he whispered hoarsely.

Grant looked over at him, confused. "See what?"

"That thing outside the window…"

Grant followed Mark's gaze to the outside of the car. "No, man, I think you're just tired. I think I fixed car, though!" He turned the key in the ignition and there was a loud rumbling. It grew stronger and stronger until the engine clicked and the headlights popped on.

"See? Told you! I had to do it all one-handed, though, 'cause somebody didn't get me my band-aid…Luckily, I'm a ambidextrous…" Grant pressed the gas pedal and shot off into the night.

'Maybe I am just tired…or hallucinating…' Mark thought to himself. Familiar surroundings can bring about some pretty bizarre memories and mirages. But that thing…it looked so real…and it looked familiar, yet not. It brought about a distinct feeling of de ja vu.

As they continued down the mountain, clouds began gathering around the moon, casting eerie shadows across Mark's dark eyes. The hills became fields mixed with patches of wooded areas, and in the distance, Mark could just make out the outline of some buildings. There were no lights shining from the town, though, and as they passed into the Lot, Mark became increasingly aware that the vicinity seemed deserted. There were no cars, no lights, no…nothing.

"See anything? Like a hotel, or people…?" he asked Grant.

"That would be a negative…wait." Grant took his foot off the acceleration. He leaned forward in his seat, straining his eyes. "I think that says something about a boarding house." He pointed to a sign about twenty yards away. They drove a little closer. "Yeah, it is! It says, 'Eva's Rooms for Rent'."

Mark's mouth dropped as he squinted at the sign. "Eva's Rooms for Rent? But…but that was here when I lived in the Lot." His brow furrowed. "Maybe it wasn't totally destroyed and they rebuilt it…" Mark turned to Grant. "Is that possible?"

Grant shrugged. "Sure, whatever, dude. Let's just go inside and get a room, alright?" They climbed out of the car and grabbed their things from the trunk. Ascending the stairs that led to the front door, Grant turned the knob and strode inside. "Hello?" he called.

A robed figure stepped out of the kitchen and, for a moment, Mark thought it was Eva Prunier, the owner of the first Eva's Rooms for Rent. Rationale overpowered this first impression for two reasons: First, Eva Prunier had died (or been burned as a vampire) the night that Mark and Ben had set fire to the Lot. Second, this woman looked nothing like Eva. She was short and dumpy, with messy brown-gray hair and long rectangular glasses perched at the tip of her nose that covered deep bags under her eyes. Scowling, she flipped on the lights. "Can I help you?" she asked in a high voice rich with a heavy German accent.

"Uh, yeah, I hope so…" Grant began. He extended his hand. The woman glared at him, hesitated, then shook it quickly. Grant took no notice to the brevity of the greeting. "Hi, I'm Grant, and this is Mark." He stepped back and pointed to Mark, his voice sounding overly-cheerful. "We just came from California and we need a room." He gave the woman a big grin.

"We have a few," she said icily. "Lucky for you, it's our off season. No one comes up here this time of year." She pushed between Grant and Mark and started up the stairs. Mark glanced over at Grant, who was totally oblivious to the cold, standoffish tone the woman was putting on. "Come on, then, we don't have all night," she called.

They picked up their bags and followed her up the stairs where they found her standing next to the door of the first room on the left. "Our rates are nightly, but fairly cheap considering the season. Here's your key." She handed Grant a small bronze key that looked fifty years old. "Breakfast is promptly at nine. We won't hold it for you."

She turned on heel and was about to leave when Mark asked, "Is this place named after Eva Prunier, the woman who owned this building a few years ago?"

The woman turned back, looking puzzled and slightly offended. "Of course not. I'm Eva, Eva Günter. I'm the only one who's ever owned this place in the two years it's been in the Lot. Any more questions?" she asked, staring hard at Mark. He shook his head and stared at the ground. "Good. I'll see you at nine sharp." Eva spun on heel and stomped down the stairs.

Grant unlocked the door and carried the bags inside. Mark slung his messenger bag over his shoulder and followed him. There were two single beds on opposite ends of the room with a coffee table between them. A large bay window was in the middle of the wall on the far side, across from the door. Grant carried his bags to the wardrobe that sat next to the bed on the right and began unpacking. Mark threw his things on the other bed and sat down.

Gazing out the window, it took Mark a moment for him to realize what he was staring at. There was a large house that sat atop a hill directly behind them. It was completely dark with the exception for a single orange glow that came from the top left-hand window. Skeletal trees grew in the yard, reaching out to the blackened sky. It was a house that had haunted his nightmares for two years.

The Marsten House.

-----------------------------------------

Ms. Lawry fully believed Murphy's Law: Whatever can go wrong, _will_ go wrong. Optimism is not an option when working with troubled teenagers and their abusive parents.

Of course, after realizing that she had left the envelope, the only clue she had to Mark's whereabouts, in Alan Thornton's apartment, Ms. Lawry had made no attempt of retrieving it. She considered herself a bold woman, but that particular plan of action was not based on valor; it was based on stupidity. Once again, she had found herself at a dead end.

Then, she had remembered the pages and pages of notes she had taken on Mark and his dilemmas. Surely he had mentioned the name of his hometown at some point during their meetings. But, of course, by the time she had made it to her office, even the school janitors had gone home for the evening. Luckily, the next day was a Wednesday and a school day.

The thunderstorm hadn't helped her efforts. The town was thrown into darkness that night due to a major power failure. School was then cancelled. In one desperate attempt to make it to her office, she found a single truck parked in the school parking lot. A janitor had come that day to retrieve his wallet, which he had left in the cafeteria. After showing him her identification as a school employee, she was allowed into her office.

Ms. Lawry sat, huddled in the back of her room, scanning paper after paper of detailed insights into Mark Petrie's life. She paused, questioning her intentions. Why, she wondered, was she so desperate to help this boy? He hadn't been the easiest subject she had interviewed, or the most well-mannered. But this Mark Petrie, he pulled on a certain heartstring. Perhaps it was because he reminded her of herself at his age. His unwillingness to be contained and silenced, along with his struggle against his own flesh and blood, touched her. Even moved her.

So now, as she poured over her many documented conversations with him, a single tear made its way out of the corner of her eye and spilt silently down her cheek. She reread one of the lines she had recorded on Monday: "Yeah, my uncle's a little tough. But it could be worse. I mean, I'm still here, aren't I?'

She browsed the papers, as if skipping back through time, witnessing discussions and stories they had shared. Then she found it: Tuesday of the week before. She had kept very specific details on that day, because he had been in a less hostile mood, though a little reluctant in sharing information. He had even been willing to confide in her the way in which he had inherited all his money.

Ms. Lawry read the document methodically, careful not to miss and words. Then, the name of the town jumped out at her, as if in bold and italic print: Jerusalem's Lot. 'Salem's Lot for short. Derry, Maine. She practically jumped out of her seat in joy and utter astonishment that she had actually found it. Then, a question arose in the back of her mind: What would she say when she got there? Come back, Mark, I can help you… There are just a few more legal problems we have to get straightened out…

Smiling to herself, she imagined what his reaction would be to the latter statement. Doubtless, it would be something along the lines of, 'Legal problems? Hell, no!' This made-up response thoroughly amused her. In fact, Mark Petrie himself thoroughly amused her. Perhaps that was the reason she wanted to find him: He was exactly the kind young man she always dreamed of helping. She imagined herself fixing his life in just a few days, and he would grow up to be the doctor who discovered a cure for cancer, or a politician who negotiated peace in the Middle East…someone who would improve the world drastically.

Her daydreaming was interrupted by an incessant banging on her door. "Hey, lady, I gotta get home now. Time to pack it up!" the janitor called through the glass. Startled, Ms. Lawry looked down at her watch: 5:30 PM. Had she really stayed that late? 'Time flies when you're having fun,' she thought sarcastically. She threw the file into her briefcase and strode to the door. Upon opening it, she found the janitor had already begun his long trek to the front of the school, his short bowl legs waddling as quickly as they could across the newly-washed linoleum. A few seconds of leisurely jogging allowed her to catch up with him.

She glanced down at his arm, which was cradled around a roll of newspapers. Craning her neck, she was able to catch a glimpse at one of the articles: BODY DISCOVERED IN EMPTY APARTMENT BUILDING, SUSPECT MISSING. "Can I look at one of these?" Ms. Lawry asked quickly, indicating the newspapers.

"Sure, I just gotta recycle 'em at the end o' the day. Extras from the teacher's lounge," he muttered gruffly.

"Thanks," she said distractedly. She flipped to the article:

_"Forty-three year old Mrs. Joyce Ann Thornton, as she was later identified, was found dead from a bullet wound in her apartment late last night. The ring finger on her left hand had also been cut off, and her wedding band was missing. Neighbors testified hearing a gun shot somewhere between six and seven o'clock yesterday evening, but it was failed to be reported until around ten later that night. Police say she had been drinking no less than an hour before she was killed, and her alcohol level was fairly high. The main suspect, her husband, Alan Thornton, seems to have fled the scene shortly after the crime. No weapon was recovered. Fingerprints of an unknown person were discovered in the apartment, but authorities have yet to find the owner of the prints."___

Suspect missing, along with the victim's wedding ring and finger. Ms. Lawry exhaled slowly in short puffs. She had left the envelope in Alan's apartment…Is it possible that he went after Mark? Ms. Lawry shuddered involuntarily. If so, Alan had a day's head start on her. If he took a plane, then he would probably already be there by now…

She mentally shook herself. Of course he didn't take a plane; he didn't have the resources. Mark had taken all the money. Silently, she applauded him. But even if Alan was unable to pay for a ticket, she would have to book one on the next available flight as soon as possible. Mark needed to be told…

As they made their way out of the school and into the rain, a bolt of lightning momentarily illuminated the sky with all its glory. The clouds remained an impenetrable black, but the sky itself turned a deep gray-red for a few seconds, then darkened once again. Ms. Lawry turned to the janitor and thanked him, putting on a face of the sincerest gratitude.

"No problem, ma'am. Juss doin' ma job." He took off his coat and held it over his head as he ran to the rusty old pick-up truck that sat at the far end of the parking lot. She watched him for a moment, then shielded her eyes from the rain with her hand as she too sprinted to her car. When she drew nearer, she noticed she had left her windows of her car open a crack.

Sighing angrily to herself, Ms. Lawry dug her keys out of her pockets and pressed the "unlock" button twice. Her headlights of her 1998 Honda blinked and she opened the door to her car. Sliding inside, she was about to toss her briefcase to the floor when something shiny caught her eye on the passenger seat beside her.

It was Joyce's wedding band, still in place on her blood-covered ring finger.

-----------------------------------------

Something was amiss.

Mark could feel it.

But what exactly that was, he wasn't sure. Call it a hunch, Mark could tell something was wrong with the town.

They sat around the counter, eating in a dark and disquieting silence. Eva stood by the stove, hunched over, grilling bacon. Grant and Mark sat at the far end of the room, while a few old men glared at them from the other side. There had been no conversation, no noise, even…not so much of a sneeze. Finally, Mark grew impatient.

"That house behind here, up on the hill…" he began. "Does it have a name or anything?"

Eva glanced over her shoulder, and for a moment, Mark thought he caught her cheeks paling. But he blinked and was sure he had imagined it. "A name? Why would we name a house? It's just 'the House on the Hill'. Nothing more." She returned to her cooking. Mark looked across from him at the three other guests. They all looked remarkably similar: dark misty eyes, gray-white hair that sprouted out from under their trucker caps, and cavernous wrinkles that seemed to pop up from their brows and forehead. And they all had the same deep frowns that appeared to have been carved on their faces permanently.

"The city councilman lives there, but we 'ardly ever see 'im," said the man on the left. He had wide bifocals that made him eyes look as if they were four times as large as they really were. Rubbing his grizzled hand across his unshaven chin and over his bushy gray mustache, he muttered, "S'matter o' fact, when was the last time we sawed 'im, Ern?" He turned to the man on his right.

Ernie reached into the back pocket of his overalls and pulled out a red and white checkered handkerchief. He blew his nose in it loudly, then returned it to his pouch. "Ya know, I dunno, Jake."

Mark nodded politely, only half-listening. He was thinking about his grandmother. What was her name? Suzette Marie…something. He glanced up at Ernie, Jake, and their friend, who were bickering about the councilman. "I think I just saw 'im a few nights ago when I was at the bar…"

"Do any of you know a Suzette Marie?" Mark asked suddenly.

The three men furrowed their brows simultaneously. "Suzette Marie?" Jake asked. "No, can't say I recall one…and that's unusual, 'cause there ain't too many folks that I don' know in this here town." Ernie shook his head. The other man didn't say anything, but his eyes made their way around the room nervously. He had a long, pale face that was drenched in sweat.

Grant looked over at Eva. "Well, thank you for breakfast, ma'am. Do you know any places a couple of guys like us could go to for fun or anything…?"

Eva pursed her lips. "'Salem's Lot isn't exactly a resort town. A few shops, nothing more. I'd just look around, if I were you…and thank heavens I'm not…" She muttered the last part under her breath.

Grant, unlike Mark, didn't hear the last part. "Thanks again, ma'am. We'll be shoving off now." He pushed his chair back noisily, and Mark followed. They stepped out of the Boarding House and into the shadowy, overcast day. Like the night before, there were no lights anywhere. With the sun hiding behind the black clouds, it was almost as dark as when they had arrived. As they got into Grant's car, a light rain began to coat the sidewalks and streets, dimming the mood of the town even more.

By the time they reached the center of the town, the road was barely visible. Mark stared out the window, trying to see people or houses. All he was capable of seeing was the dark outline of buildings. When Grant stopped at a red light, he rolled down his window, sending a wave of water over Mark.

Grinning, Grant apologetically said, "Oops. Sorry 'bout that." Leaning his head out the window, Grant squinted through the rain. "I think there's a coffee shop over there."

Mark sighed. "Grant, we just had breakfast."

"Yeah, but her coffee was decaffeinated. I can't function without my caffeine." Grant pulled his sopping wet head back into the car. "Come on, I'll only be a minute. Besides, what else is there to do?"

Grant parked the car as best he could with zero visibility. He got out, and Mark reluctantly followed. Throwing his coat over his head, Mark ran blindly after Grant. They went inside and were instantly relieved to find the place heated. Mark looked around, confused. The shop was so familiar…

He turned and looked out the window. A sign was painted on the glass. Even though it was backwards to Mark, he could still read it.

Norton's Café.

The breath caught in Mark's throat. "I got to go…" he croaked to Grant.

"But we just got here…!"

"You can stay…I'm leaving." Mark ran out the door, ignoring Grant's shouts and the uncontrollable shivers that ran up and down his spine. The pounding rain began to slow to a light drizzle, and Mark was able to look around clearly at the town for the first time.

Everything was exactly the same as it had been three years ago. The police station, the high school, the hospital. Same names, same structures. Even the cracks in the sidewalk looked identical, although Mark knew they couldn't be. He looked up at the road signs: Terrace Avenue and Jacob Road. Mark turned and ran down Terrace Avenue, following a route that he had memorized as a boy. A left on Maple, two streets down, a right onto Colchester. Third house on the right. He stopped in front of it, mouth open, breathing labored. It was his house, the house he had grown up in. Exactly as it was the night he had left Maine with Ben.

Jerusalem's Lot hadn't been reconstructed.

It had been cloned.

-----------------------------------------

The young man standing in front of her house looked very familiar, but Robyn Evanoff couldn't place it exactly. She watched him intently as he stared at her house, feeling increasingly more uncomfortable. What did he want? She strained her eyes, studying his messy brown hair and deep, penetrating eyes. How could she forget those _eyes_…? Then it clicked: the guy from the gas station in California. The one from 'Salem's Lot. Mark Petrie.

What was _he_ doing here?

Mark had said he was from 'Salem's Lot, but that was a long time ago. Okay, maybe he's visiting some old friends. No, wait…they're all dead. He was just standing there, looking at her house. She could tell from his expression that something was wrong.

Robyn had become a bit uneasy, even fearful, after her family had left her at the house by herself. But it had been her proposal to stay, after all_. "We'll only be gone for two weeks, dear,"_ her mother had promised. _"Are you sure you don't want to come with us? We'd have lots of fun…" _

_Fun?_ Fun was not going all the way back to California just to see some ADHD specialist for the little brother. Robyn's mother was a difficult person to persuade, but Roby was a convincing debater. She just reminded her parents that she was a reliable, trustworthy fifteen-year-old who would never, ever get into any trouble. And Jerusalem's Lot was a safe, unexciting town. At least, that was what her parents had believed.

But after they left, the number of people gone had tripled. First, it had been Mrs. Arnold from the coffee shop. Now it was Madison Baker's twin sister and that elderly man who lived down the street who were reported missing. The list was starting to get frighteningly long. In an undersized town like Jerusalem's Lot, three people gone in a week's time was big news. Not to mention the unusually high mortality rate that was sweeping the area; the doctors were starting to talk about some strange virus going around…

And now Mark Petrie was back in town.

_"Did it all happen at once, or did people just start to disappear?"_

_"One by one. Slowly."_

He had said she wouldn't believe him. Now, in her fear, she was willing to accept anything. Roby turned away from the window. "Hey, Sydney!" she shouted. No answer. "Syd?" '_Oh, God, it's happened again…_' she thought desperately to herself. "Sydney! Where are you?"

Robyn sprinted upstairs to the guest room. A short, sandy brunette girl lay on the bed. "Sydney?" She tapped her on the shoulder nervously.

Sydney removed the earphones from her head and beamed up at Robyn. Her grin faltered when she saw the beads of perspiration dripping off of Robyn's forehead. "Roby? Are you alright? You look like you saw a ghost or something. I mean, you're so… _pale_…"

"You weren't answering me. I thought…" Robyn waved away her thoughts. "Never mind. Listen, I'm going outside for a few moments. I'll be right back." She turned and rushed out the door, then poked her head in the doorway one last time. "Don't go anywhere."

Sydney was Robyn's neighbor, and one year her senior. Her being at Robyn's house was part of her parents' negotiation: If she was to stay at home without them, she would have to be accompanied by a friend. "Just in case," they had said. Sydney was loud and boisterous, quite the opposite of down-to-earth Robyn. Frankly, she even intimidated Robyn. But Sydney could drive, and that definitely balanced out the pros and cons for her job as "babysitter."

Hurrying down the stairs, Robyn glanced out the large bay window in the living room. Mark Petrie was still there, now sitting on the curb across the street. His hands were folded underneath his chin, and his eyes were glazed and unfocused. Hair fell in front of his face and he didn't bother to brush it away. It appeared that he was lost in thought.

_"You wouldn't believe me even if I told you…"_

"I'll believe whatever you have to say now. No matter how crazy it sounds," she muttered under her breath. Roby studied him from the security of her own home. His look was so intense, at that moment she would have given virtually anything just to find out what was on his mind.

"What do you know about this town, Mark Petrie?" she whispered, her hand pressed against the glass.

-----------------------------------------

In just three years, Mark had forgotten how much California's and Maine's weather patterns differentiated. The light drizzle of rain had transformed into a dusting snow in two seconds flat. Now, large chunks of ice were falling from the skies at alarming rates. Mark shivered and clutched his jacket closer to his body.

Quickly making up his mind, he got up off the curb and jogged over to the front door of his house…or the house that looked exactly like his house. Resisting the urge to just walk inside, Mark lifted his fist to knock on the door when it swung open abruptly.

A tall redhead stood in the doorway, looking up at him with an expression of suspicion on her face. "What's going on around here, Mark? I know you know," she demanded, her green eyes glowing from an unseen fire.

He gaped at her, unsure of what to say. "How…I mean, do I know…?"

"Gas station in California, remember?"

Of course; she was the redhead who brought him the news of reconstruction. "You bought my house?" he asked in shock.

Robyn's distrustful glare swiftly changed into one of confusion. "_Your_ house? Your house burned down three years ago, Mark Petrie."

There was a flicker of pain in Mark's eyes, and his face grew cloudy with emotion. "I don't need to be reminded, Miss…uh…"

"Evanoff. Robyn Evanoff." Her expression became less harsh, and she turned her gaze to the street behind him that was slowly turning white from the snow. "Do you want to come inside?" she asked, meeting his eyes again.

Mark gave her a small smile and shrugged. "Sure."

She led him through the door and into the foyer, but he already knew the way. They stepped into the dining room, and for a moment, Mark half-expected to see his mother's decaying body lying in the kitchen, blank eyes staring up at him.

Robyn turned to him, her face once again reflecting an uncomfortable trepidation. Mark thought he saw a glimmer of something like concern in her eyes, but a second later it was gone. "Why did you come here? I mean, why now?" she asked, hands folded across her chest.

Mark stared at her, debating with himself. He exhaled slowly, his breath making a whistling noise as it passed his lips. "Apparently, my grandmother has been looking for me. She said she lives here, so I came to find her."

Her eyes narrowed, and she considered him carefully. "Do you know anything about what's been going on around here, Mark Petrie?" He shook his head, eyebrows furrowed. "People have been…disappearing."

The color drained from Mark's face. He took a step backwards, eyes wide. "What do you mean, disappearing?" he whispered hoarsely.

Roby walked towards him, leaning forward apprehensively. "Do you know what's going on?"

"N…no…" He glanced out of the window at the snow that had now blanketed the street, covering the cars and sidewalk. "At least, I hope not…"

"Roby? Is that you?" Sydney yelled from upstairs. "Who are you talking to?"

"Just…somebody, Sydney. Go back to whatever you were doing," Roby called, her eyes still glued to Mark. A few seconds later, they both heard the _thud, thud, thud_ of footsteps descending the stairs.

Sydney waltzed into the kitchen, nose held high. She turned to Mark, who was now unusually pale and sweating bullets, and studied him. "Who's your new friend, Roby?" she asked in a sing-song voice, grinning at him.

Robyn cast a weary eye at Mark. "He's…he's new in town. I'm just showing him around."

Raising her eyebrows at her, Sydney asked, "Then why aren't you in town?"

A few awkward seconds of silence passed by. "Uh…because it's snowing," Mark said, glancing from Robyn to Sydney. "I was going to leave when it stops."

"Didn't you hear the news? The snow will just keep getting harder until tomorrow morning at the earliest." She shrugged her shoulders, smirking ever so slightly. "I guess you'll just have to stay for the night…"

Robyn rolled her eyes. "You just have to call somebody so they can come pick you up." She reached for the phone, held it to her ear for a moment, and then slowly replaced it onto the receiver. Turning to him, she met his eyes carefully. "The line's dead."

-----------------------------------------

_Glass was shattering all around him. A few shreds scratched Mark across the cheek, and he ducked for cover, hands over his face. He looked over at his mother and Callahan, who were staring at the ceiling in horror. Mark turned around slowly and saw a man lying, suspended on his back, above him. Mark stumbled backwards, hands reaching blindly for his mother. The man on the ceiling began crawling towards them, and Mark's mother pushed him behind her. Suddenly, he felt her being lifted off the ground next to him. There was a snap like a twig, and the man threw her aside like a rag doll…_

_He was on his hands and knees, yelling at his mother. "Get up!" he cried, shaking her body. Suddenly, he was no longer next to his mother, but up in the air. Hands were on his neck, squeezing, squeezing the life out of him…fangs bared, ready to bite…_

_"He killed my attendant; he can replace him…"_

Mark wasn't sure what woke him first: his nightmare or the loud crash upstairs, directly above him. All he could remember was waking suddenly, drenched in a cold sweat. Blinking, he strained his eyes, trying to see where he was. _'Home. I'm home. Hey, Mom, why am I downstairs?'_

He swung his legs over the side of the couch and stepped silently into the kitchen. _'Something's different…wait…' _Mark paused. Then it hit him: This wasn't his house anymore. Overwhelming disappointment seized him, the sensation physically excruciating, like a dagger digging into his chest. No, this wasn't his home. He crossed the kitchen and was about to go up the stairs when he saw a flashlight sitting on the counter. He grabbed it and flicked it on to see if it worked. A soft beam of light clicked on, illuminating his barefoot feet and the long plaid pajama pants that belonged to Robyn's father. It flickered a few times, signaling Mark that it was almost out of batteries.

He started for the staircase, ascending them carefully. When he reached the ninth step, he stepped over it without thinking. Before, when Mark lived in here, that specific stair squeaked noisily and Mark had become accustomed to jumping over it. Realizing what he did, he stepped down on it slowly. There was a low groan, followed by a squeal. A second later, another moan of floorboards sounded from a room upstairs. He continued up the steps, searching for the source of the sound. Once he reached the second floor, Mark peered down the darkened hallway. He strained his eyes, wanting desperately to see his mother coming out of the room at the end of the hall, dressed for work.

There was the muffled sound of footsteps from the room next to him. Mark ran his hand down the panel of the door. "This was my room…" he murmured to himself quietly.

He knocked quietly. "Robyn?" No answer. "Sydney?" The groan of a floorboard came from inside. Mark grasped the doorknob with a sweaty hand and twisted it, pushing the door open slowly.

At first, the room appeared to be empty except for Sydney, who lay, motionless, on the bed. Mark shone the flashlight inside, the beam moving over Sydney to the dresser, then to the shattered window and finally the empty corner on the right side of the room.

A man sat in the fetal position, eyes narrowly fixed on the two of them, his body rocking back and forth slowly. For a moment, Mark thought it was a burglar. Then he saw the shining silver eyes and long pointed fangs dripping with a deep red liquid. It snarled, mouth twisting back grotesquely, and Mark let out a low moan. He reached into his pocket and grabbed his cross. It slipped in and out of his sweaty fingers, and he tightened his grasp.

The creature's eyes narrowed dangerously, as if it sensed this new weapon that Mark now acquired. Slowly, it took a hesitant step towards him. Summing up a courage he hadn't thought he had possessed, Mark took three long strides into the room and held the cross out in front of him like a shield. Snarling, the being lifted off the ground and dove at him, teeth bared. Just as it was about to bite, Mark pressed the cross against its forehead, and the creature let out an inhuman shriek. As it tumbled backwards, Mark thought he saw something familiar about the creature's face… It spun around and flew through the window, hissing and spitting like an angry cat. A few moments later, it had disappeared into the night.

Mark turned back to see Robyn standing in the doorway, staring at Mark while shaking uncontrollably in her tank-top and pajama pants from the cold. She crossed the room and sat next to Sydney's body. Turning to look at him, Mark saw shock and fear visible in her eyes. As he stared at Sydney, the moonlight played with the illusion of transparency in her milk-white skin, creating an eerie glowing effect. Kneeling next to Robyn, he lightly traced the two pinpricks on the side of Sydney's neck with his finger. A few bits of dried blood crumbled off onto his finger. "I think she's dead, Mark," Robyn moaned quietly, tears sliding down her cheek. He glanced at the two holes on Sydney's neck again, horror numbing his mind.

Somehow, he didn't think she was.


	5. Don't Leave Town

**CHAPTER FOUR**

_"Temperature in Augusta is currently twenty-eight degrees, with heavy snow covering the north-eastern regions. Local time is nine-oh-four p.m. We should be arriving within the next five minutes. Thank you for flying with us, and have a safe and enjoyable journey."_

Ms. Lawry sat up in her seat and looked out the small circular window to her right. There was very little to see: just the frost that was icing the glass, and the black clouds that appeared to be engulfing them. Stretching, she yawned silently and peered around. Most of the other passengers were still asleep, legs extended out into the aisles and mouths open, snoring. Stewardesses were rushing up and down the rows, talking amongst themselves in low voices. The plane gave an unpleasant lurch and began its descent through the darkness. Ms. Lawry clutched her head and stomach with both of her hands. Closing her eyes, she gave an unconscious shudder. Flying had never agreed with her.

When the jet came to a stop in the Augusta Airport, Ms. Lawry was able to see the snow that had already coated most of the runway and stationary planes. A few minutes later, she was filing out of the door and up the walkway to the airport, clutching her small bag in her hand. Without a need to visit the baggage claim, Ms. Lawry made her way down the utterly dreary halls to the escalator. She followed the signs to the rent-a-car desks, looking around for someone who could help her. A tall, lanky man with wide hazel eyes came out of a door in the back and stood in front of her, smiling wanly at her.

"Can I help you?" the man asked, his voice sounding nasally and oily at the same time. He gave off an atmosphere of tackiness and vulgarity with his cheap gray suit, overly-shined shoes, and greasy hair. Ms. Lawry had a feeling of instant dislike towards this man.

"I need a small car, the cheapest you have, if possible," she said, taking out her identification.

"How long will you be needing this car?" the man asked in his annoyingly articulated voice.

"Only a couple of days, three at the most."

"Are you sure you only want a little car? We offer a wide range of vehicles, ma'am. Feel free to page through our catalogue." He held out an incredibly thick book to her.

"That's all right," she responded, waving her hand. "I just need an inexpensive car. Quickly, please," she added.

"No need to get impatient, ma'am," the man said, raising his eyebrows and smiling all the while. "We're just trying to make your vacation here more enjoyable, ma'am."

"I'm not really interested in having an enjoyable time. I just want a car." She met his gaze, pursing her lips.

"Please sign here, then, ma'am." He pointed to a dotted line at the bottom of a paper he pulled out of an unseen drawer. "And here," he said, indicating another line. "And here." He put away the paper. "And I'll need to see some registration, along with a driver's license and your credit card or non-personalized check. And photo I.D, ma'am."

"Doesn't my driver's license count as 'photo I.D.'?"

"No." He gave her a small, arrogant smile.

Rolling her eyes, she reached into her purse and got out her papers, along with her school I.D and credit card. The man inspected them all meticulously. "I'm afraid this does not fall into our category of 'photo I.D', ma'am," he told her, indicating the school I.D. "We require that any and all I.D be approved by the government. If this was, it would have a little stamp right there…" he said, pointing to the bottom right-hand corner of the card.

Ms. Lawry narrowed her eyes. "Then I guess I'll take my business elsewhere, sir."

She turned to leave, snatching up her bag on the floor. "N…now w…wait a m-minute," the man stammered, tapping Ms. Lawry on the shoulder. "Let me see what I can do." He grabbed the I.D. and dashed into the back room. Ms. Lawry smiled to herself.

A moment later, he came out of the door. "Does it work?" she asked, her eyes wide in mock-concern.

The man nodded fervently. "Yes, but I had to pull a couple strings. You should be very appreciative, ma'am." He scanned her papers and handed them back to her, blinking profusely. "Your total comes to $69.99."

"Where do I pick up my car?" she asked, brushing her hair out of her eyes as she stuffed the papers back into her purse.

"Right through there, ma'am," he said, indicating a large door on her left. She shouldered her bag and turned to leave. "Have an enjoyable time, ma'am," he called as she walked away.

Ms. Lawry walked through the door and found herself in a large garage. A short black man with large glasses and a thick mustache sat in a chair next to the door. "Hi, there!" he said cheerfully. "Can I see your receipt?" She retrieved the small paper from her purse. "You can pick out any of the cars in spaces marked with yellow paint," the man told her after looking over the receipt. "Let me know when you've made your decision. The key's in the door."

Glancing at the vehicles quickly, Ms. Lawry walked to the closest car, a small silver sports car, and grabbed the key. "This one works fine for me. Can I get going now?"

He looked up and smiled. "That's a good choice. I've always been kind of partial to that car." He got up off his chair slowly. "Yeah, you can get going now, after I give you your receipt back." He jogged over to her and held out the paper. "Have an enjoyable time!"

By the time Ms. Lawry got out onto the highway, it was already a quarter until eleven. She pulled over for a moment, checking the map that she found in the glove department. "Jerusalem's Lot, Jerusalem's Lot…there!" she muttered to herself. Judging from the distance between Augusta and Derry, Ms. Lawry estimated the Lot was located about two hours away. She started the car again and got back onto the empty road.

"Almost there, Mark…"

-----------------------------------------

"And you're sure that's all you saw?"

"Yes, sir…" Robyn stared at the floor, refusing to meet the sheriff's eyes. Mark watched the interrogation from the couch. Sydney's parents stood by the window, out of earshot, eyes bloodshot.

Sheriff Williams, a short, muscular bald man in his forties, called his deputy over. "Did you get in touch with Ms. Evanoff's parents, David?"

The deputy shook his head, blonde curls bouncing every which direction. "They don't have a cell phone, and the clinic isn't answering. I'm not sure why…" He frowned, rubbing his unshaven chin. "We're going to try again when we get back to the station."

Williams nodded and tapped his brown wide-rimmed sheriff hat. He looked over at Mark, who hadn't said a word. "And how did you get into all this? I haven't seen you around…" He got out a new notepad. "Let's start off with your name."

Mark glanced at Robyn, who lowered her eyes. "Mark Petrie. I…"

"Mark Petrie?" The sheriff looked up from his paper, studying Mark's face. "You mean, the Mark Petrie from the news?"

Mark nodded. "I just got here about two days ago. I'm trying to find a relative, but nobody seems to know who she is. You could talk to my friend Grant Burnett if you need someone to verify my story." He glanced around at the officers. "Grant came to the Lot with me."

"How did you get involved in this, though? Do you know Ms. Evanoff?"

"Know her? No, not really. I mean, I met her at this gas station in California. She said she was from the Lot, so I figured…" His voice drifted off, and he shrugged half-heartedly.

There was a low chuckle from behind the sheriff. They turned to see the deputy stroking his chin, smirking. "'I met her at a gas station in California,'" he imitated. "C'mon, chief, you don't believe this kid, do you?"

"What are you trying to say, Summers?"

David Summers took a stride forward, hands in his pockets. "Nothing really, sheriff, except that his account of the incident doesn't make any sense." He glanced at Mark out of the corner of his eye, smirking. "It's suspicious, ain't it? I mean, this guy's here for a day and we already have somebody else missing. In fact, I would even go as far to say that he's probably been here for more than two days…he might have just been hiding out somewhere. The story's full of holes. What, he just happened to find Ms. Evanoff's house and arrive the same night that girl died?" He pointed to the ambulance in which Sydney's body lay with a shaking finger. "You know, this 'Grant' person probably doesn't even exist."

"It's the same with all you small-town, small-minded people, isn't it?" Mark said hoarsely. "You're just wasting your time if you try to hold me accountable for Sydney's death. Just because I'm new, you immediately assume I'm to blame for each single problem." Mark wiped his hand across his forehead. "I mean, didn't it occur to you that Robyn's account backed up every word in my entire story?" He folded his arms over his chest.

Sheriff Williams turned to face Summers. "Leave it alone for right now, David. You'll have your chance later…" Mark heard him mutter.

Summers scowled heavily. "Let me call the place I'm staying at. They'll get Grant, and he'll back up my story," Mark said, taking a step towards them. Williams glanced at Summers and handed Mark his cell phone.

A few moments later, Mark heard the familiar ringing sound faintly through the ear piece. "Hello?" Eva's rich German-accented voice answered.

"Ms. Günter? Uh, hi…it's Mark Petrie. I came in two nights ago, remember? Well, I was wondering if I could talk to Grant…"

"Mr. Petrie," Ms. Günter began, her voice strained with impatience. "I'm a very busy person. I don't have time to be running errands or fetching missing people."

"Missing? He's probably just up in his room…"

"We haven't seen your friend since yesterday. Everyone figured he was with you."

"He's…gone? But…well, um, thank you anyways, Ms. Günter. Sorry I wasted your time." Mark ended the call and handed the phone back to Sheriff Williams slowly. "Grant's not there. No one's heard from him since yesterday," he muttered, his eyes wide in shock. He turned to Deputy Summers. "I guess I can't back up my story after all."

Summers didn't say anything. "You can stay here for now, Petrie, but…but don't leave town," the sheriff said, turning to leave.

"It's not like I could…without Grant…" Mark muttered as they walked out the door. He walked over to Robyn, who was sitting on the arm of the couch. "Are you okay?"

She looked up at him fiercely. "What do you think? My best friend was just murdered in my own house. No, I'm not okay." She waved her hand at the door through which "And to top it all off, everyone thinks _you_ did it. I just…" Robyn put her hands over her face. "I don't know who to believe."

Mark took a deep breath. "I'll tell you what's going on. I can't guarantee it won't sound crazy, but…"

Robyn stood up hesitantly and put her hand on his shoulder. "Listen." He looked down at her, his eyes glinting. "Right now, there's nothing you could say that I wouldn't believe."

"Alright." He gave in and sat on the couch. Robyn took the seat next to him. "Three years ago, I stayed in this exact house. That's why I came here. I didn't even know you lived here. Ben Mears, the author, came to the town to write a book. These two other guys, Richard Straker and Kurt Barlow, they were new here, too. They lived in the Marsten House."

"The what house?"

"Marsten. It was named after the guy who built it, Hubert Marsten. He went crazy later on, killed a bunch of little boys, and then shot his wife and hung himself. Ben Mears saw him do it when he was younger. He went into the house on a dare. But ever since that happened…" Mark paused. "Ever since that happened, the house had…it had some kind of evil in it. So when Straker and Barlow moved in…and Ralphie went missing…people began to suspect. I mean, in Hubie's day, all those kids disappeared and eventually were found dead. The house is empty for, like, twenty years or so, and then these guys move into it. Suddenly, one boy's missing and then his brother, Danny, turns up dead." Mark looked Robyn dead in the eye. "People were scared. Pretty soon, it's Dud Rogers, Mike Ryerson, Mrs. Glick…man, the list goes on and on…" He rubbed his temples with his hand. "And then…Danny tried to get me. One night, at my window. In fact, it was that exact same window…"

"Wait." Robyn leaned towards him, eyes narrowed. "Danny? Didn't you say he died?"

"He did." She gave him a confused and somewhat frightened look. "He didn't attack me as a…a living person."

"What?" She stared at him, eyes wide.

"This town has vampires."

-----------------------------------------

He placed his bag on the conveyer belt, glancing around nervously. Those around him, however, were too rushed to notice the unusually large man. He watched anxiously as his carry-on went through the x-ray machine, checking the security guard's face for any sign of suspicion. It passed through without any problems. The man sighed with relief and stepped through the metal detector undisturbed. He grabbed his bag and hurried through the hall towards the bathroom.

Once inside a stall, he took out a bottle from one of the pockets, along with a small brown rag. The tag on the container was faded but still legible: _CHLOROFORM_. He stuffed the bottle into his back pocket and stepped out of the stall. A solitary figure stood at the urinals. Smiling to himself, he walked up to the man and yawned loudly.

"Long day?" the guy asked, looking over his shoulder.

"Uh-huh." He carefully got out the bottle of chloroform, opened it, and turned it upside-down on the rag. "Say, where are you headed?"

"Portland. Maine." He waved his ticket at him and zipped up his jeans. "What about you?"

"The same." He launched himself at the unsuspecting man, covering his mouth and nose with the cloth. A few seconds later, his victim collapsed onto the floor, unconscious.

Alan reached down and removed the ticket from the man's fingers. "Portland…" he muttered to himself. He shrugged. "Close enough." He pulled the body to the stall and locked it. Retrieving his bag, he got out a long, thin copper wire and held the man's head over the toilet bowl. Tracing his finger over the man's neck, Alan located the jugular…

A few minutes later, Alan was tightening the last of the screws in the large vent next to the stall. He shone his flashlight into the grates, just to make sure that no security guards or janitors would stumble across the body. Thankfully, Alan had pushed the dead man back far enough that no beam of light would not be strong enough to illuminate the body.

By the time the restroom had begun to stink, Alan would be long gone.

He pushed the handle on the porcelain toilet, watching the dark red liquid dissolve into the water. Then he left the bathroom, carrying newly acquired his ticket with him.

-----------------------------------------

The frightened gleam in his eyes, mixed with the grim expression set onto his mouth, gave Robyn the strangest emotion. Firstly, she felt a raw sense of denial. Not only was his story ridiculous, it was the raving of a madman. But Mark's reaction to the man in Sydney's room lay fresh on her mind: there had been no hesitation in his attack, only a forbidding knowledge of the matters at hand. And then, for no reason at all, Robyn had an unexplainable desire to laugh. _'Oh, I'm going to giggle hysterically. Just throw my head back and…'_

"You don't believe me." He stared at her, disappointment engraved in his face. "You said you would."

"Mark…" She lifted her hand, preparing to place it on his arm, then thought better of it. "Do you hear what you're saying? I mean…" She hesitated. "Do you know what it _sounds_ like?"

"I've had to live with this for the past three years of my life. I've never told _anyone_. Not even my best friend." Sighing, he stared out the window. "I don't even know why I told you…" He put his hands on his knees and pushed himself up. "I'm going to go find Grant, then we're leaving. Maybe you'll believe me when half the town is gone."

She stood up next to him, biting her lip uncertainly. "Do you have any proof?" she asked quietly.

Mark rolled his eyes. "Why would I bother going to all that trouble? If there's any part of you that _doesn't_ think I'm an insane lunatic, then you should just come with us."

Robyn shook her head. "Even if I _did_ believe you, I couldn't just leave my town behind."

He nodded. "I know what that feels like."

"I'll help you find your friend, if you want," she said, taking a timid step towards him. Mark shrugged. "Can you drive?"

"I had driver's ed, that's about it. I haven't taken my permit test yet. I just turned sixteen," Mark answered. There were a few moments of undecided silence. "Can you? Drive, I mean."

"No," Robyn replied, chuckling. "I'm only fifteen."

"Eva's isn't too far from here. We could walk…"

The journey to Eva's Rooms for Rent was long and arduous, with merciless winds making the temperature less than twenty degrees. Even with the high noon sun, the two of them could feel the iciness dripping down their spines. Completely unprepared for the weather, Mark had to borrow one of Robyn's father's extra coats. Luckily, he also discovered his old gray beanie in the pocket of his jacket. Together, they began their hike to Eva's. About half-way there, Mark tried to convince her that hitch-hiking was an easier way to travel. Robyn, however, would have none of it. Her lack of enthusiasm in the idea slowed his persisting. An hour later, they stood on the doorstep of the boarding house. "What if he's not here?" Mark asked suddenly, turning to Robyn. "What do we do then? Where else would he go?"

Robyn shook her head, a fountain of golden-red hair spilling out from beneath her hat. "Don't think about that now. We'll cross that bridge when, or even if, we come to it. Let's just get inside." She opened the front door and stepped inside, appreciating the heated building to the fullest extent. Mark came in after her, rubbing his hands together for warmth.

"Hello? Eva?" he called, peering around the hall.

A tall raven-haired man stepped out into the corridor. "You must be Mark. Mark Petrie, isn't it?" He smiled, his lips stretched taut over his shiny white teeth. His nose was long and pointed on the end, shaped much like a snout. With his fluid movements and distinct, even intense features, the first thought that came to Mark's mind as he watched him glide towards them was that this man must have been a wolf in another life. A large, intimidating wolf.

The man held out his hand in one quick, graceful stroke. "My name is Ulric Pierson. I've heard _so_ much about you, Mister Petrie. It's an honor to finally meet the only survivor of the mysterious goings-on at 'Salem's Lot."

Mark looked over his shoulder at Robyn, who was looking from between the two of them curiously. "How did you know who I am?"

Ulric Pierson threw back his head and gave a loud, barking laugh. "My dear boy, you've been plastered on every headline and newsletter in this town for the past three years."

"So, uh, Mr. Pierson…are you staying here, or what…?"

"Mark…" Robyn stepped forward. "Mr. Pierson is the city councilman. He lives up in the house that overlooks the town."

"Then why is he here?"

_"Mark!"_ she hissed through gritted teeth.

"I'm just wondering why he's at the boarding house if he already lives somewhere…"

"To see _you_, of course," Pierson said, folding his hands across his chest.

"Why?"

"How about we step into the kitchen and have a seat before I get to everything?" Pierson said quickly.

"Wait. I have a question…" Mark glanced over at Robyn, then turned his gaze back to Pierson. "Have you seen my friend Grant around recently? He's tall, albino…kind of hard to miss…"

"Grant, you say?" Pierson stroked his chin thoughtfully. "I think I _did_ see him…yesterday, I believe…"

Something changed in his eyes for just a moment, but Mark caught it. A light seemed to gleam from behind them, illuminating his eyes eerily. A look of what could only be described as _hunger_ overtook Pierson's face as he stared into the distance. It was gone a second later, but for that one instant, Mark felt uneasy. This Pierson guy seemed wrong, somehow.

-----------------------------------------

Ms. Lawry would have, under different circumstances, taken time to appreciate the subtle change of landscape as she drove down from the mountain in the early morning fog. But as she drew closer to the town, she accelerated the car in her impatience. The fields glistened delicately in the sunrise from the tiny frozen drops of dew that clung to the grass. Dark clouds in the distance began to sweep in at alarming rates, and soon after, an icy wind began to howl softly.

As she drove into town, Ms. Lawry had the distinct feeling that something was wrong in the town. There were no people walking on the sidewalks, chatting at a corner, or standing in line at the newspaper venders. Just a dead silence that swept through the streets. The place gave her the creeps.

The car made its way down the main street slowly, and pellets of ice began to fall from the skies. She Ms. Lawry drove up to the police station, a wide, red building that looked almost like a cave with its low roof, broad, blackened doorway, and dark windows that were stretched along dirt-covered brick paneling. She parked her car right in front of the doors and locked the door securely. The unusually tall steps that led to the building were cracked and unkempt, with roots and weeds growing from the small crevices.

From the look of the town, Ms. Lawry expected the doors to be locked. To her surprise, they opened easily. She peered inside. The walkway directly in front of her was unlit, just like everything else in the town. She stepped in and called, "Hello? Anybody here?"

There was a shout in response near the back of the station, but she couldn't understand what they were saying. The hall just kept getting darker the farther she went in, so she placed her hand against the wall and followed the corridor blindly. About thirty yards later, she came to a turn. Straining her eyes, she saw there was a light near the back of the new hall. Increasing her pace, she began a light jog towards the beacon, which turned out to be the overhead lights of an enclosed office area. Trying the knob, she found them unlocked.

"Can I help you?" A tall, sandy-haired man sat behind a desk. He had a long, handsome face and springy curls that tucked out from behind a wide-brimmed police hat.

"I hope so. My name is Latanya Lawry."

The man held his hand out over his desk, and Ms. Lawry shook it. "Nice to meet you. I'm Deputy Summers."

"Well, Mr. Summers, I just got here from California…"

"California?" He stood up slowly and walked towards her, peering at her curiously. Taking off his hat, he scratched his head. "You're not looking for Mark Petrie, are you?"

"Yes! Yes I am. Do you know where I could find him?"

"At the current moment? No." Ms. Lawry's shoulders slumped slightly. "Maybe if you help me with a problem, I could find some information for you." Summers paused and smiled to himself. "Do you know anyone by the name of Grant? Grant…Burnett, I believe?"

Ms. Lawry shook her head, raising her eyebrows at Summers. "No, but what does that have to do with…?"

"Mark claimed that he came here with this Grant character, a friend of his. Our police staff has yet to find evidence of this man anywhere."

"So just because you can't find him, you think Mark is lying? Why would he mislead you on something as trivial as that?"

"We were questioning him about the mysterious death of Sydney Dayton. He was at the house in which she was staying at the time…"

"You think he _killed_ her?" Ms. Lawry looked at him, eyes wide in shock. "Deputy Summers, Mark would _never…_" She shook her head in disbelief. "What evidence do you have to support this utter lunacy?"

"Well…" Deputy Summers shuffled his feet uncomfortably. "We don't exactly have any proof that she was _murdered_, per say. But he got here just at the right time, or you might say the _wrong_ time."

"What do you mean by that?"

"We've been having some…problems in town, you might say. Our mortality rates have gone through the roof. Doctors are talking about a virus, but from what I've seen, illness doesn't begin to cover it. And there have been a number of disappearances in the last couple of days…"

"So you think it's him because he's new in town? _I'm _new in town, Mr. Summers. Are you going to accuse _me_ of these so-called 'disappearances'?" Ms. Lawry scowled at him.

"Of course not, Ms. Lawry, but we have to take into account these recent happenings." The deputy straightened up and stared her in the eyes.

She glared at him for a moment. "So are you going to tell me where Mark is, or do I have to figure it out by myself? And don't you think I won't…"

David Summers sighed, defeated and tired of arguing with Ms. Lawry. "The last place I saw him was at Robyn Evanoff's house on Colchester. Does that name ring a bell?" Ms. Lawry shook her head. "He probably isn't there anymore, but you could talk to Robyn."

"Thank you for your time, Mr. Summers. I appreciate it," said Ms. Lawry articulately, turning to leave.

"Listen to me, Lawry," the deputy said in a low voice. She glanced over her shoulder. "Once you find him, you better stay here for a few days. I don't want to have to hunt you both down."

Without answering, Ms. Lawry strolled out the door. A moment later, the lights came on with a muffled whirring noise from behind the walls. She turned and saw Summers next to the electrical board, watching her. As she walked down the hall, their conversation floated through her mind.

_"He got here at just the right time, or you might say the wrong time…Our mortality rates have gone through the roof…We have to take into account these recent happenings…I don't want to have to hunt you both down…"_

She got into her car and slammed the door shut. The engine started fairly quickly, and she backed out into the gray and lifeless street. As she drove down the road, a dark shadow loomed in front of her. She glanced up ahead and saw a hill with a large and daunting house atop it. It appeared to have been built in the eighteen-hundreds, even though the town itself couldn't have been over five years old. With its angled features and twisted trees, the Marsten House seemed to loom over the Lot, ready to topple over on top of the town.

A shiver crept up her spine, and Ms. Lawry shuddered involuntarily.


	6. Ulric Pierson

**CHAPTER FIVE**

After Mark left, Grant sat in the café, utterly confused. The abruptness of his friend's departure had been unexplained and spur-of-the-moment. Grant had no idea what to do, so he ordered coffee from a petite blonde waitress. He sat at the table in the corner, staring out the window, when the rain subtly changed into a light snow. _'Great…'_ Grant thought to himself. _'Mark's gone off to God knows where, and to top it off, we're going to get a blizzard in the middle of nowhere.'_

Grant sat at his booth, sipping his coffee and pausing every few moments to look out the frost-covered window, when a man stepped through the entrance to the café. He had straight dark hair and a very distinctive appearance that caught Grant's attention. It was almost as if he felt Grant's eyes on him, for at that exact moment, the man turned and smiled widely in his direction. His grin caught Grant off guard: it was almost like a snarl, houndish and somewhat frightening. The man took a few striding steps toward Grant.

"I don't believe I've seen you around here before." He held out his hand, still beaming.

Shaking his hand, Grant stood also. "Yeah, I'm kind of new around here. My name's Grant Burnett. I'm staying at…Eva's, I believe is the name, with my friend, Mark. Mark Petrie. He's…"

The man stroked his chin thoughtfully. "Mark Petrie. Yes, I've heard of him. Wasn't he the only survivor from that fire three years ago?"

"Yeah, and he got a letter from some lady who said she was his grandmother. He came here looking for her…"

"Ah, yes," the man said, his voice low and smooth. "I've been informed of the story." He straightened his posture and put his thumbs in the collar of his navy blue suit. "Allow me to introduce myself. I am Ulric Pierson, the city councilman. My job is to…" He paused, shrugging nonchalantly. "Well, I _run_ the place, you might say. I am the one who made this town what it is today." He swept his hand towards the window through which Grant saw an empty street and gray, lifeless buildings. "In fact, I made the plans for every house, every street, every _parking garage _in Jerusalem's Lot. This was all _my_ idea."

Grant nodded, only half-listening to Pierson's egotistical jabbering. He stared out the glass door, watching the vacant road for any sign of life. The snow had covered the sidewalk, and the snowflakes were now reaching the size of Ping-Pong balls. A few seconds of silence followed Pierson's speech, and then Grant asked, "Do snowstorms around here last long?"

Pierson's grin grew wider, and a chuckle rumbled from deep inside his throat. "The weatherman is calling this one a flurry. When we get finally _do_ get a snowstorm, you'll know it."

"I don't think I'll be in town long enough to see one. I'm just here until Mark finds his grandma, then I'm heading back to nice, eighty-degree California," Grant said, smiling.

"If you're only going to be here for a few days, you must let me show you around. Who better to give you a tour than the man who designed the town? You can even get a bird's eye view from my house. We could have a few drinks." Pierson clapped Grant on the shoulder.

"But what about…" Grant was about to argue that he should wait for Mark when he looked up into Pierson's eyes. They were icy and gray, almost hypnotically so. "Okay. I could use a drink…"

"Excellent." Pierson turned to the blonde waitress who was cleaning up the table next to theirs. "Susannah?" She spun around and smiled kindly at him. "Could you put this young man's bill onto my tab?"

"Sure, Ulric."

"You're the best, doll face." He winked at her, then led Grant out of the café. The wind was howling ferociously now, and they ran quickly to a long black Porsche that was sitting right outside the entrance. Pierson unlocked the doors with his automatic keys and Grant threw open the door, clambering inside as fast as he could. He shook his head to get all the water droplets out of his white hair. A moment later, Pierson hopped into the driver's seat.

"Welcome to Maine, Mr. Burnett," he said, grinning. He turned the keys in the ignition and pulled out into the road. They drove through the streets, a steady snowfall covering the town.

After they reached the outskirts of the Lot, Grant asked, "Where exactly _is_ your house, Mr. Pierson?"

Pierson gave Grant his mysterious snarling grin, and pointed up at the white hill in front of them. Grant peered up, leaning forwards, and saw the Marsten House. The windows looked almost like eyes, dark and empty, staring down at him cruelly. He hugged his arms around himself to keep out the cold that had suddenly encased him. Suddenly, Grant felt claustrophobic.

"You _live_ there?"

Without answering, Pierson parked the car at the foot of the wide wooden stairs that led up to the front door. He pulled to keys from the ignition and dashed out into the rain and up to the porch. Grant got out, but he paused in front of the house, looking up at it. The wood appeared to be rotting, which didn't make any sense…the town was only three years old…

"You're going to catch a cold standing out there," Pierson called from inside the house. He held the door open as Grant ran in, soaked from the unusually wet rain. Once inside, Grant gazed around him, amazed by what he saw. The house was not decorated; in fact, it was almost like it had been built yesterday with one hundred-year-old wood. There were only a few chairs and tables in the rooms that Grant could see. The foyer was large and open, appearing even more spacious due to the lack of furniture. A dark red rug, the only thing of color, lay in the middle of the entrance hall, its tassels stretching out to Grant like snakes. "Home, sweet home…" he heard Pierson mutter under his breath.

"It's very…roomy," Grant said politely.

"Let's get those drinks, shall we?" Pierson said, leading Grant down the hall and into a dusty and seemingly unused kitchen. He got out two clear wineglasses, elegantly decorated with blown glass. As he took the goblet, Grant noticed that the adornments around the cup depicted a story. On the front, a man with brilliantly white eyes was standing against the moon. The next sequence illustrated the same man, this time accompanied by a woman with long raven hair. They appeared to be an embrace. The final picture showed the man lying in a casket. Another man stood over him, holding a sharp stake.

Grant put down glass gingerly. He glanced up at Pierson, who was watching him with the strangest expression on his face…it was one of an ominous amusement, as if someone had just told a dark and disturbing joke. "I keep my wine down in the basement. I have the most incredible collection in my wine cellar. You _must_ come and see it."

He was about to say no, when suddenly it felt as if he was _drawn_ to follow Pierson. Without answering, he stood and pushed in his chair. "I would love to see your collection," he said in a low voice. Pierson smiled and led him to a door in the hallway. He opened it, and immediately a wave of stench washed over Grant, overpowering all his other senses. Putting his hand over his mouth and nose, Grant almost choked from the odor.

"It's right down here."

A little voice in Grant's head asked him _why_ he was following this man down to a putrid-smelling basement. But again, he pushed aside this thought and descended the stairs. There was a creak and a groan. "The stairs are rickety. Watch your step," Pierson said over his shoulder.

By the time they reached the bottom, Grant was almost suffocating from the lack of breathable air. And yet, for some reason, he kept following Pierson. It was if a magnet was pulling him along, or a leash had been tied around his neck and Pierson held the chain in his grasp. Grant followed him around a corner through a tight hallway, the pipes above them dripping every few seconds. At the end of the corridor was a tall, bolted door.

Pierson unlocked the chain slowly, with sinister anticipation hanging in the air. But just before it swung open, Grant knew with an unexplainable positivism that there was no wine behind the door.

-----------------------------------------

"Ms. Evanoff, do you think you could excuse us?" Pierson watched her, waiting to see her reaction. "Mark and I have important matters to discuss." A bored expression lined his sharp features as he gazed at her coldly. Mark glanced back at Robyn with concern mixed with a touch of fear…fear that he would be left alone with this stranger who radiated a sort of evil aberration.

"Well, I walked all the way here…"

"Williams?" Pierson interrupted her as he shouted down the hall. The sheriff stepped out of the kitchen warily, not looking directly at Pierson. "Drive Ms. Evanoff back to her abode. I need to speak to Mark." Williams nodded, then led Robyn quickly out of the boarding house.

Pierson turned his gaze back at Mark. "Well, Mr. Petrie. You've been inciting all kinds of discussions around here, haven't you?" He led Mark down the hall to the kitchen. Eva sat on a stool by the counter, nervously biting her nails. She quickly put her hand at her side and stood when she saw Pierson enter the room. "Sit back down, Eva." Slowly, she returned to her seat. He pulled out a chair for Mark, then took his own seat at the head of the table.

"Now, Mark…" Pierson began. "I'm going to need you to start at the very beginning. _Why_ did you come back?"

Mark stared deep into Pierson's mesmerizing gray eyes, then took a deep breath and launched into his story. He began with meeting Robyn Evanoff at the gas station, and how stunned he had been that 'Salem's Lot had been reconstructed. When he got to the part about him receiving the letter from his grandmother, Pierson visibly perked up and asked exactly what the note entailed. Mark summed up the contents as best he could. Pierson kept raising the strangest questions, like, "What were your initials thoughts after you read the letter?" and "Why didn't you follow her requests to write a letter back before you traveled to Maine?". Mark answered all his inquiries and continued his account. He left out a few key details, such as Alan, Ms. Lawry, and the money he took from Ben. Consequently, there were a few major holes in his story, but neither Pierson nor Eva asked anymore questions until, almost two hours later, Mark had finished speaking.

Pierson was staring at Mark with a gleam in his eye that made a chill creep up Marks' spine; it was almost like a driving _hunger._ Eva, on the other hand, was glancing back and forth between the two of them, emitting a sense of anxiety and confusion. "Well, Mr. Pierson, I think Mark should be getting to bed now." She stood and placed a hand on his shoulder.

"But what about Grant?" Mark stood suddenly, his focus fixed on Pierson. "You said you saw him."

"I'll have to check into it, Mr. Petrie." Pierson rose off his chair with a serene regality. "For now, I believe a good night's rest would do you some good." He strode to the foyer and removed his long black coat from the coat stand. "Thank you for your time, Ms. Günter." Without another word, he opened the front door and stepped out into the night.

There were a few moments of unnerving stillness as Eva stood by her seat, gazing at the door through which Pierson had departed. Her wrinkled face was lined with distress and bewilderment. "Go upstairs, Mr. Petrie," she said without turning around. Mark stood motionless for a second, watching her silently, then headed swiftly for the staircase.

It seemed to take an eternity to reach the top. With each step, Mark grew more and more exhausted. Yet Pierson's conversation kept ringing in his mind: _"Why didn't you follow her requests to write a letter back before you traveled to Maine?"_ Write an invitation…

As he reached for the doorknob to his bedroom, it hit him. _Pierson was the watchdog._ Straker had taken that role three years ago. He was the human who served the vampire. But then who…?

Mark sat on his bed, hands over his ears. He was searching for answers in his memory, wondering if the key was somewhere in his subconscious. Pierson had lured him to 'Salem's Lot, that much was for certain. He had claimed that Mark had a grandmother who lived here and that she wanted him to come stay with her. Suzette Marie probably didn't even exist…and now, he was stranded here in the town that he had never wanted to step foot in again. Grant was gone, most likely taken by Pierson. Mark had no method of getting home.

_Home…_what a curious concept. Three years ago, Mark had considered _this town_ to be his home. And now, it was the very hell on earth from which he was trying to escape. Perhaps if he tried hiking out of town during the day…but what happened when the sun set? For now, Mark knew the vampires were everywhere. It had been no illusion that he had seen driving through the forested mountains. He wouldn't last one night out there.

He laid down onto his bed, thoroughly worn out. But the fear inside of him kept edging through his mind, reminding him that it was the time of the undead. Sleep would have to wait. But slowly, his subconscious took over, and he dreamed…

-----------------------------------------

Sheriff Williams had seemed uncharacteristically anxious. Bullets of sweat had poured down his face by the bucketfuls, and he kept glancing around the empty streets nervously.

Robyn sat in the backseat, deep in thought. Sydney's milk-white face was floating constantly through her mind, screaming things like, _"Why didn't you help me?"_ and _"I was so afraid, Robyn, so afraid…"_

She shut her eyes, squeezing her eyelids together to block out the images. Mark loomed before her. _"This town has vampires…"_

As the sheriff turned onto her street, she watched his knuckles grow increasingly paler. He was afraid of something…but what? What did the sheriff of a town like Jerusalem's Lot have to fear? When they pulled into her driveway, Robyn saw a car sitting on the black pavement. For one hopeful moment, she thought it was her father's car. Then she saw the black woman sitting in the front seat.

The sheriff got out of the car and walked over to her. "Can I help you, ma'am?" He glanced around the car fearfully.

The woman opened the door of her car and got out. She was unusually tall and limber, with wide lips and a deep brow. She extended her hand to the sheriff. "Hello, sheriff. My name is Latanya Lawry. I'm looking for Mark Petrie. Your deputy said that I would find him here."

Williams shook her hand hesitantly. "I'm afraid Mark isn't here anymore. He went back to Eva's boarding house of Cliff Street. He's speaking privately with Ulric Pierson right now, though."

After hearing this news, Ms. Lawry gave a loud, frustrated sigh. "Do you know where I could find…" She paused, thinking. "Robyn Evans, Evanoff, something like that…?"

Robyn glanced up, startled by hearing her name. "I'm Robyn Evanoff," she called out the window. She unhooked her seatbelt and slid out of the car. "You're looking for Mark?"

Ms. Lawry nodded, all the while looking Robyn over carefully. "How do _you_ know him?"

"We met in California. He mentioned 'Salem's Lot, and I told him that I lived here, and…"

"Is there something wrong?" Ms. Lawry interrupted. "I mean, the deputy seemed to think Mark was some kind of criminal. He mentioned that someone died today, and Mark was suspected of being involved in the incident. I told him that that was a bunch of…"

"Do you want to come inside? There are some things that we should discuss," Robyn said.

The sheriff checked his watch. "I'm off duty in a few minutes. I need to be going." Without another word, he hopped inside his car and took off quickly. Robyn watched him go, then she turned and walked up the sidewalk to the house. Ms. Lawry followed her.

Once inside, Robyn motioned for Ms. Lawry to sit on one of the couches in the living room. "Why are you looking for Mark?" she asked, taking a seat on the rocking chair.

"I'm his school psychologist. I've been seeing him for about a week now, and we've been talking about his life here, and his uncle. He didn't mention you…" She paused for a moment, thinking back. "When he didn't show up for his appointments, I talked to his uncle. Very violent, very angry man. In short, I only found out where he went before…before I had to leave. I was worried, unbelievably so. For that reason, I took a plane and came here. I _need_ to find him. There's something very important I have to tell him."

Robyn furrowed her eyebrows. "I didn't know about any of that. The only thing Mark told me was that the Lot looked exactly the same as it did three years earlier, before the fire."

"What about the person who died? He didn't have anything to do with that, did he?"

Robyn looked down at the hard wood tiles, resting her chin on her hand. "I couldn't say for sure, but my instincts tell me that he didn't. I don't know…I guess you would call it a feeling…"

"Why do you trust him?" Ms. Lawry asked, staring at Robyn. "You barely know him." Robyn shrugged evasively, gazing out the frosted window. "In a town where everyone who's new is considered dangerous, you are willing to believe this boy who was found at the scene of your friend's death. Now to me, that seems strange, borderline suspicious."

Robyn glanced up at Ms. Lawry. "Suspicious? Let me tell you what I told him. Right now, with things the way they are in this town, I'm willing to believe anything that makes sense." She slumped back down into her chair. "I mean, why would he kill Sydney?"

Ms. Lawry nodded. "I don't think he did it either. Obviously I wasn't there or anything, but I, unlike you, know Mark. At least, I understand his tendencies. Homicide would be one of the last things he'd do after his own mother's murder. From the discussions I've had with him, Mark almost seems to fear death in and of itself. And living with his uncle was tearing him apart…" She stopped abruptly and stood up. "I shouldn't be telling you all this. It's supposed to be confidential, and I'm not sure Mark would appreciate me relaying this information." Ms. Lawry held out her hand, and Robyn stood and shook it. "It was a pleasure talking with you, Ms. Evanoff. But now, I really must be getting to that boarding house."

"Will you both be leaving tonight?" Robyn asked, a hint of disappointment in her voice.

"I'm not sure. We'll stop by before we head off, though, to say thank you again." Ms. Lawry's face softened just a bit. "And to say good-bye." Robyn nodded, gratitude lining her face. "Well, it's getting late. I'll see you soon, Ms. Evanoff." And without another word, she turned and walked out the front door. Robyn watched her pull out of the driveway from the front window. The headlights of the sports car disappeared down the blackened street.

Robyn turned and found herself facing her own empty house. Chills crept up her spine, and she hesitated before going upstairs. Her own room was in the basement, a kind of secluded area of the house. Now, alone in the darkened hallway, she found herself fearing the one place she felt at home. She crept up the stairs, edging along the wooden paneling. The sudden creak of a floorboard made Robyn's heart stop fleetingly and the hairs on her arms stand on end, but a moment later, she was sure she had imagined it.

She dashed down the hall as soon as she got to the top stairs, making a clear effort not to look into any of the rooms. Grabbing a t-shirt and an old pair of shorts from her big pile of laundry, Robyn changed quickly and got into bed. She didn't bother brushing her teeth, just this once. She expected sleep to come quickly, but a strange awareness of danger overtook her senses, and she lay underneath the covers, shivering. There was a high-pitched screech outside the window to her left, and she glanced over, terrified.

Sydney was floating next to her window.

But the apparition Robyn saw was simply that, an apparition. Sydney couldn't have been at Robyn's window, because she was at Mark's.

-----------------------------------------

It was the sound like nails on a chalkboard that awoke him first. _'It's a dream, I'm dreaming. Danny Glick is not here,'_ Mark told himself, squeezing his eyes shut. Of course Danny wasn't there. Mark opened his eyes slowly and turned to look out the window.

The girl on the other side of the glass was certainly no Danny Glick. She had milk-white skin, fangs that dripped with dark crimson blood, and sandy-brown hair that streamed behind her, even though there was no wind. The dark circles around her eyes accented her glowing white eyes. _"Mark…"_

"Oh, dear Lord…" Mark murmured to himself in horror, a kind of half-prayer, half-plead.

_"What's the matter, Mark?"_ Sydney asked, her face a mask of mock confusion._ "Why don't you want let me in? We could have fun…"_ A single white finger extended from her hand and made its way slowly down the glass. _"Come on, Mark. Come out and play…"_

Mark looked into her bright white eyes and for a moment, he felt himself being drawn towards her. He regained control. _'Don't make eye contact, you fool!'_ he told himself.

_"There are plenty of us out here, Mark. See?"_ She swept away from the window, allowing Mark to look out above the Lot. Figures were floating aimlessly over the roofs of houses, gliding down to windows all over town. _"I have friends, Mark. They want to meet you, too. We all want to meet you…"_

"You stay away from me!" Mark whispered between clenched teeth, squeezing his eyes shut. But he knew he was fighting a losing battle. "He thrusts his hands against the post and still insists he sees the ghosts; he thrusts his hands against the post…"

_"You can't resist us, Mark. You're not strong enough."_

"Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name…"

_"Just let me in, Mark. I'll give you a kiss…"_

"Thy kingdom come…"

_"Then you can meet my friends."_

"Thy will be done…"

_"But, then again, I might want you all for myself…"_

"On earth as it is in Heaven…"

_"Mark…"_

"Deliver us from evil, deliver us from evil, deliver _me_ from evil…" He took a deep breath. "You may _not_ enter into this house! In God's name…"

Sydney stopped smiling. An evil look, one of pain, disgust, and utter fury crossed her face. _"Fine! I'll just come in myself…"_

"Like hell you will…" Mark muttered. "Let's just see you try." Sydney glared at him, fire burning in her eyes. "I didn't think so. Go back to your little rat hole, Sydney. And don't come here again."

Sydney let out a wail like a tortured animal, a sound so horrible that Mark had to cover his ears. Then she took off, but not before looking over her shoulder, her face contorted into an expression of demonic fury, and shouting, _"They'll find you, Petrie! You can't hide forever! They've been waiting…!"_

Mark watched her disappear until she was just another darkened shape soaring against the midnight sky. He stumbled back onto his bed, his breath so heavy that it felt like he was trying to inhale boiling water or steam. Beads of perspiration dripped slowly down his face, soaking his neck and hair. He reached down under his bed and took out his dirty and battered messenger bag, searching its pockets for his old cross. Once he found it, he paused, clutching it in his white-knuckled hand as if it were made of pure gold.

After thinking for a moment, Mark strode over to the door and fumbled with the lock. As soon as he heard it click, he staggered back to his bed. He stretched out on the mattress, not bothering to get under the blankets that sat in a bundle next to him. He knew that he would never fall asleep, so he simply lay there, with his fist wrapped around the cross on his chest.

'I've got to get out of here…' he thought to himself. But he knew nothing was that simple.

-----------------------------------------

The boarding house on Cliff Street was a large, orange building with strangely angled sides and small, jail-like windows. With the large yellow moon outlining the house, the very ambiance of the place made Ms. Lawry shiver uncontrollably. She pulled into the small concrete parking lot and got out of her car.

The narrow cobblestone sidewalk that went up to the front porch was covered with weeds and patches of moss, making it appear as if it were twenty years older. Ms. Lawry walked up to the door, cautiously avoiding the cracks for fear of tripping in her high heels and twisting her ankle. She knocked twice on the heavy oak doors, and when no one appeared to answer, she twisted the knob and stepped inside. The halls were dark and vacant, and a dead silence wrung through the wooden panels.

The only light in the corridor was from a room to her right. A glow was being radiated out from the cracks around a door, and a muffled murmuring came from inside. Ms. Lawry stepped up in front of it and listened for a moment.

"I haven' seen Tom all day. I mean, he was s'pposed ter come an' meet me and Ernie over at the coffee house at three, but he never comed. An' he was actin' all funny yesterday, didja notice? Didn' say a word a' breakfast or nothin'…"

"Don't worry about it, Jake. I'm sure he just had a few drinks at the bar or went fishing or something." Footsteps were heard walking slowly towards the door. There was a pause. "Jake, do you remember those two boys who were here yesterday morning?"

"Yeah. The albino guy and the one who asked all them questions. 'Bout the house on the hill and some lady. Yeah, I 'member. What's about 'em, Ev?"

Another moment of uncomfortable silence. "Nothing, Jake. Never mind I mentioned it."

Ms. Lawry cleared her throat loudly, and the discussion ended abruptly. A second later, the door opened to reveal a dumpy woman with gray-streaked hair and a long red robe. An older man with a thick gray mustache sat at the table behind her. "Can I help you?" she asked in a rich German accent.

"Are you the owner?"

The woman nodded slowly. "I am Eva, Eva Günter."

"Do you know if Mark Petrie is staying here?"

Eva glanced back at the other man guardedly. "Yes, yes he is. He's sleeping right now, though, so if you could come back tomorrow…"

"I need to speak to him now, if that's possible. It's kind of important," Ms. Lawry responded.

Eva's gaze dropped to the floor, and she rubbed her chin thoughtfully. "Very well. I'll show you to his room." She pushed her way through the door and strode up the stairs. Ms. Lawry quickened her pace to catch up with her. Eva stood at the end of the hall, hands on her hips and staring at the door, which was closed. Eva knocked loudly. "Mr. Petrie? Mr. Petrie, there's someone here to see you…" When Mark didn't answer, she tried the doorknob. It twisted lifelessly in her hand. "It's locked. Mr. Petrie must not want to be disturbed."

Ms. Lawry was not so easily convinced. She pounded on the door, shouting, "Mark! Mark, open up!" Still, the door remained tightly shut. Ms. Lawry's hands fell to her side, and her shoulders slumped in defeat. "Could I get a room here? Just for the night."

Eva nodded. "Let me get a key from downstairs, and I'll need you to pay. Wait for a moment, please." She disappeared down the darkened hall.

Ms. Lawry stood motionless for a second, watching Eva's retreating back. Then she turned her gaze to the large window at the end of the hall. A small pinpoint of light was glowing in the distance, and Ms. Lawry walked a bit closer, straining her eyes to see. The glow was coming from a house on top of a hill behind the boarding house. It was the same house she had seen when she left the police station. A single light was lit in one of the windows on the upper level.

Ms. Lawry took a few steps backwards. Suddenly, she wanted to leave Jerusalem's Lot as quickly as she could. Something about the town disagreed with her. It just didn't seem right.


	7. Evidence

****

**CHAPTER SIX**

The sunlight streamed through the window and onto Mark's face, his messy brown hair hanging down over his forehead and cheek. There was a creak in the hall, and he awoke with a start. For a moment, he was thoroughly confused. He rolled over and fell onto the floor with a thud. Sitting on the rough brown carpet, lost and bewildered, he suddenly remembered.

Sydney had come last night.

Mark closed his eyes, squeezing his eyelids shut and wishing intensely that he had been dreaming last night. But deep within his subconscious, he knew he hadn't. She had been there, and 'Salem's Lot was again infested with the undead. The overpowering feeling of defeat trampled his spirits with a crushing blow. Somewhere in the back of his mind, however, was a voice screaming for him to get out of there, to run away. To leave before he ended up joining Sydney up in the sky, floating around, searching for fresh blood.

He sat on the floor, hands clasped around his knees. What about all the people in the Lot, though? Could he live with himself if he left them behind? His guilt would eventually eat away at him, like some sort of cancerous disease. Mark remembered his own feelings of shock and utter disappointment as he had watched Sheriff Parkins disappear over the horizon, leaving Jerusalem's Lot to its fate. Now, he was contemplating doing the same thing. _'And what would you accomplish here? As if anyone would believe you if you stayed…'_ said the voice of reason. If Robyn Evanoff, the one person he thought he could convince, didn't believe him, who did he expect _would_?

Mark stood up, gingerly rubbing the shoulder on which he had fallen. He sat down on his bed and stared into space, lost in thought. It took him a few moments to realize what he was looking at. A phone sat on his bedside table, its large white numbers staring up at him. He picked up the receiver and dialed the directory search.

"Please state the location you are trying to reach, sir."

"Uh, Jerusalem's Lot, Maine…"

"And the name of the party, sir?"

"Evanoff…"

"Just a moment, sir."

Mark heard faint music in the background, some nameless classical piece by an unknown composer. It felt like an eternity passed by before Robyn picked up the phone. "Hello?"

"Robyn?"

"Yeah…who's this?"

"It's Mark, Mark Petrie. Listen, I have something important to…"

"Wait, did that woman stop by to see you yet?"

Mark sat back on his bed, confused. "What woman?"

"She said that she was looking for you. What was her name? Ms. Lawrence, Lauren, something along those lines…"

_"Ms. Lawry?"_ Mark ran his fingers through his hair. "Ms. Lawry came to see you?"

"Yeah, she seemed really worried about you; she mentioned something about your uncle."

"Oh, God…" Mark lay down on his bed, eyes closed, contemplating this silently to himself. "She's _here?_"

"Mark? What is it?" Robyn's concern showed through in her voice. "She knows where you're staying…is that bad? Is she here to hurt you? I swear I didn't know. I mean, she seemed so nice…"

"No, it's not that." He sat back up, wiping the sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand. "I just can't believe she…" His voice trailed off, and he rubbed his temples.

"What did you have to tell me? I mean, why did you call?"

"Well…" Mark thought for a moment, seriously debating with himself. She would never believe him… "I saw Sydney last night."

There was dead silence on the other line. "Mark…" Robyn whispered. "Please don't…"

"Robyn," he said, his voice gentle yet resolute. "Why would I lie to you?" Again, no answer. "She came to my window…"

"Mark…"

"She came to my window and she wanted me to let her in…"

"Please, Mark…"

"Listen, you _have_ to believe me."

"MARK!" she shouted through the phone. Mark fell silent. "I don't know what your agenda is here, Mark, but whatever it is, drop it. You have no idea what it's been like for me, being here all by myself in this house…the house in which Sydney…" She stopped, and Mark heard choked tears through the static.

"You have no idea what it was like for me, either, Robyn." She didn't answer. "Listen to me. I'm the only one who would know what went on here last time. And because of last night, I know that it's happening again. Don't you understand? _No one _believes me, and I feel responsible for everyone in the Lot because I'm the only one who can help."

"Do you have proof?"

Mark groaned. "Damn it, Robyn, if I had proof, I would be going to the authorities." He rested his head on his chin and sighed. "Wait…" It dawned on him. "I might…but it won't…"

"Just spit it out, Mark; I don't like being out of the loop! What are you talking about?"

"Call the town coroner. If Sydney was at my window last night, her body couldn't have been in the morgue."

"What?"

"Do you have a two-way connection?"

"Yes, but what does that…?"

"Dial up the morgue and let me talk to whoever is there. You just listen."

Robyn sighed. "Wait for a minute…I have to get the number…" A few moments later, Mark heard her dialing on the other line.

"This is the morgue. How can I help you?"

"Hi, I need to know if a body is still in your morgue…thing…"

"Excuse me?"

"Is there a Sydney…uh…"

"Marcowitz," Robyn whispered.

"Is Sydney Marcowitz there?"

"Do you mean a living person, or a…"

"No, she's dead."

"Just a moment, please." There was an uncomfortable silence between the two of them as they awaited the answer. Two minutes later, a baffled coroner got on the line. "Excuse me, who is this?"

"Uh, this is her, uh, second cousin. I just got in from vacationing in, uh…Barbados, and I was wondering if this is the correct morgue in which she is…um…being kept."

"Well, sir, I regret to inform you that there appears to have been some kind of…mix-up. We can't find Sydney Marcowitz's body anywhere. She was registered in here yesterday, but…"

"Thank you for your time. Good-bye." He waited for the coroner to hang up, then said to Robyn, "Do you need any more proof?"

-----------------------------------------

The door to the kitchen shut with a bang. "What are you doing here?" Mark demanded. Ms. Lawry stood next to her seat at the table, looking at Mark with a mixture of relief and annoyance.

"Is that how you greet the person who just traveled God knows how many miles to get you? Do you know how much trouble I had to go to just to get here? I've been to hell and back for you, Mr. Petrie."

"You have to leave. Now."

Ms. Lawry stared at him, her eyes wide in puzzlement. "What are you talking about? I'm here to bring you home."

Mark looked down at the ground. "I can't go."

"Either explain to me what you're talking about, Mark, or get in my car right now."

"I can't," he repeated, keeping his eyes cast downwards.

"Mark Petrie," she said in a tone remarkably similar to that of a disciplinary mother. "I witnessed a murder, I almost got killed, I was threatened, I paid for a plane ticket, and I had to deal with an annoying car salesman and an aggravating deputy, all so that I could find you. I'm not going to automatically turn around and go back to California just because you say you can't come with me." She put her hands on her hips and glared at him.

"Listen, Ms. Lawry. You know I'd tell you if I could, but you wouldn't believe me, not in a million years."

"Listen, Mark Petrie." Ms. Lawry took a few steps towards him. "You know I'd believe almost anything you'd say."

"Almost." Ms. Lawry blinked. "All I can tell you is that I can't come with you. I appreciate all you've done to find me, even if I haven't the slightest clue as to _why_, but I have to stay here." He paused. "And you can't."

Ms. Lawry took a deep breath, studying him. "Your uncle's coming, Mark. He's on his way."

"Alan's coming _here_?" Ms. Lawry nodded. Mark stared at her, all the while taking steady steps backwards. "How does he…? Oh…" Mark ran his fingers through his hair. "I left the envelope." He shook his head, disgusted with himself. "Tell me what happened."

"I went to go see him, to ask where you were. We kind of got off on a bad foot, and…well, to make a long story short, I found the envelope just as your aunt got home. She was drunk, I believe. There was a…a struggle, and she…died."

"Did you do it?" Mark demanded, his eyes burning holes into her face.

"No, of course not!" She narrowed her eyes questioningly. "But why does it bother you so much that she passed away? I thought you didn't like your aunt and uncle."

"Correction: I don't like my _uncle_. My aunt…she just had problems. Drinking and drugs and such. She never laid a finger on me, though." He paused. "So Alan killed her?"

Ms. Lawry nodded. "I got out of there as quickly as I could. I had the envelope in my hand, but in the confusion…" She shrugged half-heartedly. "I must have dropped it. So I went back to my office to look up my notes on our talks to find the name of the town. But when I got back to my car…well, let's just say Alan made it clear that I wasn't supposed to come here." Ms. Lawry smiled in spite of herself. "So of course, I couldn't resist showing up."

Mark's face remained stony, a grim sort of dread visible in his eyes. "And now he's coming here."

"Listen, Mark, I…"

"No," he interrupted. "I'm glad that he's coming. But you…you have to leave. Now."

"Mark, I can't just leave. You expect me to pack up and head back while your…_violent_ uncle is on his way here, right now?"

He sighed and gave up his argument for the time being. "Why'd you come, anyway?"

Ms. Lawry shrugged. "You're my patient, whether you like it or not."

"Would you have traveled across the country for just any of your patients, Ms. Lawry?"

She smiled. "No, Mark Petrie. I wouldn't. Your attitude towards life is very… different from that of any of my other patients. Heck, it's different from any other person's I've ever met. And I find that…fascinating, captivating, you might say. You remind me of…me."

Mark gave her a half of a grin. "I'm different. Yeah, I've heard that before."

Ms. Lawry sat down at the kitchen table. "Mark, I've been hearing some interesting stories around here. About a murder that took place two nights ago…"

"You talked to that bastard, Summers."

She pursed her lips in disapproval. "He told me that you were there that night. At Robyn Evanoff's house."

Mark rolled his eyes. "There was a snowstorm, Ms. Lawry. If I had been able to get back to the boarding house, I would have."

She nodded. "Well, what happened? How did she die?"

He shifted his gaze to the top of the wooden table. "The same thing as last time," he whispered.

"What?"

"I said…" He sighed. "Never mind."

"No, Mark. Tell me what you said."

"It's the same thing as last time, alright? What's going on now is the same thing that killed my mom three years ago."

Ms. Lawry stared at him. _"What is it, Mark?_ Who killed your mother?"

"Dull, mindless, moronic evil…" He glanced back up at her. "That's what Callahan called it." Mark stood up and left the kitchen, trudging upstairs and slamming the door to his bedroom shut. Ms. Lawry sat in shocked silence.

-----------------------------------------

_Mark stood along the cold, stone wall of the church, listening to Ben and Callahan. He peered around the corner and saw Callahan standing over the pool of holy water, Ben sitting in the pews not too far away. Mark knew eavesdropping was wrong, but…_

_"There's a presence inside that house. I don't know if you can feel it."_

_Callahan glanced over at Ben. "Oh, I can feel it."_

_"I felt it before when I was a boy and I went inside. I thought it was me, I thought it was…a manifestation of my own fear."_

_"It wasn't." Callahan poured the water into the marble vat. An echoing splash filled the sanctuary._

_"What was it?"_

_"The unholy spirit. Dull, mindless, moronic evil. It's familiar in the confessional as the smell of old velvet. Hubert Marsten invited the unholy spirit into his house and home, and there it resides."_

_"But that house, it feels so familiar. It feels like it's coming from inside me." Ben looked up at Callahan, a childlike fear in his eyes._

_"Evil comes from inside all of us…"_

Mark sat on his bed, hands over his ears. He glanced over at the phone, resting on its holder. Mulling over his options for a moment, he reached out and picked it up slowly.

-----------------------------------------

The rage building inside his chest was overwhelming, a kind of rhythmic and taunting wrath that was ready to explode. Stealing the car was nothing to him, and all that was left now was his anger. He muttered to himself heatedly, screaming random insults and cuss words. Spit flew from his mouth at violent speeds. He drove aimlessly yet focused on one point: Mark.

Alan shifted the gear and gained speed steadily: fifty, sixty, seventy, seventy-five miles an hour. The man at the gas station told him that Jerusalem's Lot was just over the mountain, but Alan had passed over the ridge almost ten minutes ago. His fury was overwhelming.

Finally, in the distance, Alan saw the silhouette of a town, its buildings dark and lifeless. There was a deteriorating sign on his left: _WELCOME TO JERUSALEM'S LOT_. The 'Jerusalem's', however, had been vandalized, scratched out to a point of illegibility. Only the last six letters were decipherable, so now the sign read _WELCOME TO SALEM'S LOT_. Alan grinned, a disturbing expression in which his true sanity showed through.

As soon as he entered the town, however, Alan could tell that something was wrong. There were no people walking along the streets, no cars driving in the roads. He peered out his windows, searching for life. The day was cloudy and miserable, so perhaps everyone was staying inside…

The figure of a man appeared on the corner, seemingly from nowhere. Alan pulled his car up next to him and rolled down the window. He leaned towards him, squinting up at him. The man was dark-haired and lean, with a pointy snout…no, nose. It was a nose. But the shape of his mouth, and the appearance of his entire face was so…snout-like.

"Where is Mark Petrie?" Alan demanded.

The man smiled, a wide leering grin that made Alan's hair stand on end. "Alan Thornton?"

Utterly bewildered, Alan stared blankly at the man. "How'd you know my name?"

"Mark has informed us of the situation…how he ran away from home, even though you were so good to him…"

Alan blinked in surprise. "Uh…"

"I'm the city councilman, Ulric Pierson. I know just where Mark is right now, Mr. Thornton, if you wish for me to show you."

"Yeah, I need to find him. Right now."

"Shall I accompany you, then? I could lead you right to him," Pierson said, his grin widening.

Alan shrugged. "Yeah, sure. Whatever you want…" Pierson strolled around the back of the car and got in the passenger side. "So where to?"

"It's right up that hill, Mr. Thornton…" He pointed at the knoll directly in front of them. Alan shifted the gear and started towards it.

The house on top of the hill gave Alan an unexplainable feeling of terror. It was large and shadowy, and it radiated a kind of sinister evil. "Is he staying in there?" Alan asked, his voice cracking just a little. Pierson nodded. "Tell me something…did some teacher come here looking for him, too?"

"A teacher? No, I don't believe so. Why do you ask?" Pierson smiled at him, his eyes glowing eerily.

"No reason…" He pulled into the driveway, the small stones hitting the bottom of his car with tiny thuds.

"Follow me, Mr. Thornton." Pierson stepped out of the car and strode into the house. Alan watched him, hesitating for a moment. He considered turning around and leaving, but something told him to follow Pierson. Slowly, he put both his feet out of the car and slid out. The clouds seemed to grow darker with each step towards the house. He climbed the porch stairs and looked up at the house, peering into the darkened windows. For a second, he thought he saw someone (or perhaps something) in one of the top windows. But he blinked, and it was gone. He walked through the doorway and into the house.

-----------------------------------------

The dialing seemed faint and far away. "Hello?"

"Robyn. Listen, I…"

"Mark?"

"Yeah, I need you to come over here. Right away." Robyn didn't answer. "What? You _do_ believe me now, right?"

A moment's hesitation. "I'll go with you on this one. Until another answer presents itself."

"Do you have a way over?"

"No, not really, but I…"

"I'll send Ms. Lawry over. Right now." He hung up the phone.

Mark rushed back downstairs, stomping down the steps loudly. He walked through the doorway and froze. Deputy Summers was leaning against the cabinet, smiling smugly at him. Ms. Lawry was no longer there.

"Hello, Mr. Petrie." Summers crossed his arms arrogantly. Mark didn't say anything, only giving a slight nod to address him. "Perhaps you've heard of the interesting things going down at the town morgue this morning. If you haven't, allow me to inform you." He sauntered over at took a seat directly in front of Mark. "Sydney Marcowitz's body is missing. The coroner is baffled, the police are running circles around this, and I keep telling the sheriff to talk to you." He narrowed his eyes. "Somehow, Mr. Petrie, you're involved in this. We may not be able to peg you on the _murder,_ per say, but once I find a single trace of you in that morgue, everyone will know that I was right."

"Is that your logic talking, Summers, or your ego?" said Mark in a low voice trembling with anger.

Summers leaned forward in his chair. "Talking _that_ way to the authorities never got anyone very far, now did it, Mr. Petrie?" Mark didn't answer. "All I need right now is a fingerprint here, a bloodstain there, and…"

"And you'll haul my ass off to prison, right?" Mark interrupted. He sighed angrily and looked him straight in the eye. "Deputy Summers, there are things happening here that are of more importance than your obsession to catch me in a crime. I don't know _why_ you're so intent on putting me away, but it's not going to happen today. I have more important things to do."

The deputy glared at him, and for a moment, Mark thought he saw a glint of something darker than malice in his eye. Summers picked up his hat off the table and left the kitchen in a rush, glancing back over his shoulder one last time with a look of pure abhorrence. He opened the door and almost ran into Ms. Lawry, who was standing right outside in the hall. She smiled innocently at him, and Summers darted past her and out to his car.

Ms. Lawry stepped inside, her eyes outlined in a parent-like concern. "What did he want?"

Mark rolled his eyes good naturedly and gave her a small smile. "Like you didn't hear." He took a seat at the table again, and Ms. Lawry sat across from him. "I need you to do me a favor." She raised her eyebrows. "Could you pick up Robyn and bring her back here?"

"Will you tell me what's going on when I get back?" she asked, staring at him critically. He nodded slowly. "All right, then." She backed out of the kitchen and got her coat off the tree stand. Just before heading out the door, she turned around and looked at Mark through eyes lined with sorrow.

"What?"

"It's just that…" Ms. Lawry glanced down at the hardwood floors. "I'm really sorry that you have to go through all this." Pausing, she shrugged half-heartedly. "I mean, I never had to deal with anything like this when _I_ was sixteen." She gave him a tearful smile.

He didn't return the gesture. "You don't know the half of it."

Ms. Lawry didn't reply. She turned and walked out the door, the _click, click_ of her high-heeled shoes echoing through the halls. Mark sat in the kitchen for a moment, deep in thought.

-----------------------------------------__

Mark got up and went upstairs, locking himself in his room. His messenger bag sat on the bottom of his bed. He reached into the pocket and pulled out the notebook in which he was writing Ben's story.

The pages were filled with scribbles and crossed-out words, a few sketches, a couple of disorganized thoughts that had passed through his head as he wrote. Mark laid down on his stomach, stretched out over the comforter, and flipped to the last page. He could still read the most recent sentence, the one he had tried to scrawl out. _'Damn it, will they never stop screaming…'_ He opened the drawer in the table next to his bed and found a pen.

_"Then again, evil never really leaves us, now does it? It follows, much like a dog or a particularly terrifying memory. It lingers in the back of your mind, popping up in your thoughts when you least expect it, like a jack-in-the-box. Domestic evil is a predominantly influencing aspect of the human psyche. An abusive relative, a horrific event that occurs at home, they're more significant than one would care to admit. Ask someone who knows…like me…"_

Mark put down the pen, biting his lip, his eyes closed. _Popping up in your thoughts when you least expect it, like a jack-in-the-box…_ Memories had been haunting his nightmares for the past three years, yet when he awoke from each one, he was drenched in sweat and completely convinced that what he had just witnessed was real. Like Danny Glick, and Barlow, and…

The front door to the boarding house closed, rattling the walls ever-so-slightly. "I'm up here!" Mark shouted loudly, not looking up. He heard two sets of feet hurrying up the stairs. There was a knock on his bedroom door, and he remembered that he had locked it. Getting up slowly, Mark fumbled with the chain for a moment then opened the door.

"Mark!" Ms. Lawry scolded. "You can't be so loud in a boarding house! There are other people here who may be sleeping…"

"There's no one else here. They're all gone."

"Gone where?"

Mark shrugged. "How am I supposed to know? Wherever vampires go during the day." Ms. Lawry snorted, thinking that Mark was making some sort of dark, twisted joke, but Robyn sat on the edge of his bed slowly, peering into his eyes.

"You think that's where…?"

_"What?"_ Ms. Lawry jerked her head around and stared at Robyn. "What are you talking about, Ms. Evanoff? You two don't really…"

Robyn turned her gaze down to the floor, not meeting Ms. Lawry's disbelieving gape. Mark stood up suddenly. "Oh yeah. Vampires. Didn't Robyn tell you?" He looked over at Robyn, his eyes wide in mock surprise. "You didn't inform Ms. Lawry of our little situation, Robyn?" She glanced up at him, pursing her lips. "I meant that, Ms. Lawry. Jerusalem's Lot has vampires. A bunch of 'em, by the looks of it. You should have seen the bunch at my window last night."

"Mark, we have to approach this rationally…" Ms. Lawry began.

"_Rationally?_ Fine, we'll discuss this calmly, like adults," he said, his voice skipping from octave to octave. Ms. Lawry glanced at Robyn, unsure of what to do or say. "We'll just _formulate_ a strategy to destroy all these vampires…yeah, that'll work!" Mark was looking around the room wildly, his chest rising and falling rapidly. His eyes were wide with hysteria. "Maybe if we got a big tub-full of holy water, a couple hundred crucifixes, and a whole bunch of stakes, we could manage to get maybe half of them if we're lucky. Oh, and don't forget a huge vat of gasoline to set the town on fire. We'll need that…"

Robyn stood up and strode over to him, putting her hands on his shoulders. His shirt was damp with sweat. "Mark." It was like he couldn't hear or see her; his eyes kept roaming around the room, refusing to look at Ms. Lawry or Robyn. "Mark, look at me." He finally looked down at her, his mouth trembling slightly. "Listen, you have to calm down. Going into a frenzy won't help anyone."

Mark sat on the bed, wiping his hand over his face. "I'm…sorry." He squeezed the bridge of his nose with his fingers, eyes shut tightly. "It's just that…" he started, his voice quavering and unsteady. "It's kind of hard, everything repeating itself. Even just _talking_ about all that…it's like reliving the worst, most emotionally damaging days of my life all over again."

Ms. Lawry pulled a chair over in front of Mark and sat down. "Mark, I think it's about time we went back to California. I think all these familiar surroundings has made you…"

"Familiar surroundings?" Mark said, raising his eyebrows. "Ms. Lawry, the town is exactly as it was when I left three years ago…just not burned to the ground and everything…"

Robyn glanced over at Ms. Lawry, who was staring at Mark with incredulity. Their eyes met, and Robyn shook her head vigorously, signaling Ms. Lawry to drop the subject.

"We could talk to the police…" Robyn said.

"Oh, yeah, that'll work," Mark responded sarcastically. "Let's go talk to the people who want to throw me in jail. Maybe sending me to the loony bin would be good enough for them." He was silent for a moment, his eyes still closed. "Pierson's serving as a mortal, that much is for sure, but I still don't know who the vampire is. Maybe if we went up to the Marsten House, during the day, of course, and found out, we could…start at the head, work our way down…it worked last time…"

"Pierson? You think _Ulric Pierson_ is behind all this? Mark, you have no idea how crazy that sounds." Robyn got up and stood by the window, staring out at the Marsten House.

"All we have to do is go up there when he's not home. Vampires are immobile during the day, but they can get you to do things for them. With their eyes. It's like they control you…" Mark's eyes went foggy as he remembered finding Barlow in the basement of the boarding house. His stomach gave a jolt; _three years ago, Barlow had been two floors below where they were standing…in this exact house_. The thought hadn't occurred to him. And Barlow's voice floating through his mind…

_He peered down at Barlow, who lay in a wooden coffin, his eyes closed tightly. "Like somebody's father, he could be somebody's father…but not yours, Mark Petrie, I couldn't be **your** father, because he's **dead**." A mocking laughter rang in Mark's ears. "I could change that, you know. I've defied death for hundreds of years, who's to say I can't do that for someone else?" The basement was buzzing with an unbearable silence as Ben picked up the stake, but Barlow's voice sounded so real, speaking directly into Mark's mind. "Better stop Ben, though. He's about to destroy your last chance at a family…"_

"Maybe we should just go up and speak to Mr. Pierson, ask him if he knows why Mark is acting this way," Ms. Lawry whispered to Robyn. "I mean, there's actually nothing _wrong_ with this Pierson guy, right?"

"Of course not! He's a bit reclusive, yes, but well-respected and admired by everyone here." Robyn turned and looked at Mark, who was sitting on the bed, deaf to everything besides his own thoughts. She glanced back at Ms. Lawry. "You're sure he's up to it?" Ms. Lawry nodded.

"Mark." He didn't answer. "Mark!" Robyn shouted. He looked up, his face mirroring that of a person who had just awoken from a deep sleep. "We're going to the Marsten House."

Mark blinked in surprise. "You are?" They nodded simultaneously. He swallowed, the saliva dripping down his throat as if it were made of sandpaper. "Alright, then. Let's go."


	8. In the Shadows of the Marsten House

**CHAPTER SEVEN**

The absolute stillness in the car was disturbed only when Ms. Lawry shifted the gear of her car. Robyn's eyes flickered back and forth between Mark and Ms. Lawry hesitantly as she sat in the back seat, subconsciously cracking her knuckles in apprehension. Mark was next to Ms. Lawry, slumped down in his seat with his shoulders drooping. With his eyes glazed over as he stared out the window, snow-covered trees and street lamps reflected in his deep brown eyes, he radiated an unapproachable state of meditation.

As the road beneath them started to get steeper, Mark grew increasingly antsy. He rubbed his sweaty palms together, and he fidgeted around in his seat disjointedly. When the house came into sight, he reached down and started to buckle and unbuckle his seatbelt sporadically, glancing nervously out the window at the building that loomed before them.

Ms. Lawry pulled the car up in front of the stairs. "Well, here we are…" She started to get out.

At the last moment, Mark hand shot out and grabbed her wrist. "You can't go in there."

She pulled her arm back towards her, her eyes narrowed in confusion. "What are you talking about? We just drove up here for you…"

"Not now." He pointed to the long black car that sat, hidden away, among the brush outside the house. "You go in now, and you're just _begging_ for trouble." He paused, watching the other car. "We could hide out." Ms. Lawry sighed. "We could come back tomorrow! We just can'tgo in there while _he's _in there," he said desperately. He stared at her, his breathing intense and labored. His wide eyes were glassy but focused.

Robyn leaned forward towards Ms. Lawry. "Maybe you should go in by yourself. I'll stay here with him." She glanced back at Mark, whose face glistened as rivers of sweat poured down his face. Ms. Lawry nodded.

"No…wait…" Mark said frantically, his eyes following her.

She turned back, a reassuring yet quizzical smile on her lips. "Mark, I'll be back in five minutes, you'll see," she told him in a patronizing tone. "I'll be fine!" she called over her shoulder as she ascended the front porch.

Robyn watched Mark as he stared after Ms. Lawry, the back of his shirt soaked with perspiration. She didn't say anything, only nervously pulling at her hair. Seeing Mark in such an alarming state of anxiety scared her.

It seemed to Mark that they had sat in the car for hours before anything happened. The digital clock in front of him had to be wrong; the minutes ticked by so slowly that time seemed to stand still.

The late afternoon sun passed behind the clouds, as if foretelling doom. The shadows that were passing across Mark's eyes grew larger and larger until they encompassed his entire face. A wind blew outside the car, creating a high-pitched shrieking sound that whistled through the cracked windows. Robyn shuddered and gathered her jack around her shoulders.

Mark turned his gaze to the front of the Marsten house. For a moment, he thought he could almost hear voices coming from inside, whispering heatedly in uneven tones.

_"Tonight…do it tonight…"_

He stared through the yellow-stained window above the heavy oak door, the sat up with a jolt. _Someone was staring back._

The eyes were shiny, unnaturally so, wide and furious. They could not have been human, glowing eerily without any light, but they appeared more animal than man. No, more _devil_ than man. The door opened the timing so menacingly slow, and Mark realized that it wasn't a white-eyed demon inside. He was mortal, and his gray eyes burned with a fire hotter than any flames in Hell. And suddenly, Mark wished it _had_ been a vampire standing on the porch.

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The deep, resonating creak of old stairs echoed hollowly through the covered porch. Ms. Lawry hesitated in front of the door, leaning towards the seemingly windows that lined the wooden panel. A faint, shrill screech cut the air around her…or perhaps it was only in her mind…

_"Straker?… Let's get out of here! Come on, Mike!"_ The sound of heavy footsteps vibrated the walls around Ms. Lawry. She looked inside the house, eyes wide, but saw only an empty foyer. And yet the footsteps grew louder, and she heard the distinct thud of a door slamming shut.

She closed her eyes tightly, and the noise faded away. Ms. Lawry shook herself mentally. What would the board say if they knew she was entertaining ideas about the supernatural? It had taken her _years_ to earn their trust, having come from a background that was…

Ms. Lawry took a hold of the heavy, ornate bronze door knocker. The metal was heavy and cold…so cold that she withdrew her hand quickly, as though she had been burned. She glanced back at the car. Robyn's figure was distinguishable in the backseat through the tinted glass, but Mark must have been huddled down in the shadows that were enveloping the front half of the car in darkness.

She turned back to the door…only to find it open. A gust of wind blew across the porch, breaking her skin out in goosebumps. Ms. Lawry paused for a moment, weighing her options, before taking a tentative step inside.

It was the overwhelmingly strong smell that hit her first; a heavy, putrid odor to which she couldn't find a comparison. Ms. Lawry stumbled backwards a few steps, almost out the door, when she caught herself. "Hello?" she choked out. A disturbing silence answered back. "Mr. Pierson?" She walked carefully through the hallway, studying the strange architecture of the building with a mixture of awe and increasing fear.

The décor of the wooden walls was like nothing she had ever seen. The dark beauty was staggering. But what truly frightened her were the flowers. Roses. Everywhere. Spread out on the mantle, in ancient vases lined up along the table, even scattered on the floor. None had any petals. They were all bare except for a small, wilted bud with wrinkled brown petals. Suddenly, from out of nowhere, the bitter-sweet hum of music filled the air. Then all was quiet.

She strained her ears, listening to the complete silence, and she heard it again: the distinct sound of a violin. Quickening her pace, Ms. Lawry took a few hastening steps, following the sound towards the end of a long corridor to her left. She found herself standing in front of a door with a wavering light gleaming from through the crack. The glow grew stronger and diminished before her eyes. Slowly, she pushed the door open.

Two candelabras stood on either side of the door, with smaller fragrant candles lit along the bookshelves that lined both walls. An ancient record player rested on top of an end table a few yards away. The room was strangely shaped, very narrow in width but extraordinarily long in length. A large chair, almost like a throne, sat on the far end of the room. Ms. Lawry could see the top of a person's head above the back of the seat. "Mr. Pierson?" she whispered, her voice sounding strained. The chair swung around menacingly.

For a moment, she believed. She believed everything Mark had told her about vampires and the town. Ulric Pierson sat regally in the throne, his dark hair combed straight back, seemingly plastered to his skull. His hands were clasped in front of his face, and he watched her over his long, skeletal fingers. It was his eyes that caught Ms. Lawry's attention. They were sharp, intelligent, and they appeared to glow from some internal sinister light. He stood and she took a step backwards. Her reaction seemed to amuse him, and he strode slowly over to her, holding his hand out lazily.

"Ulric Pierson, city councilman. How may I be of assistance?" Any doubt Ms. Lawry had about Pierson vanished as soon as his words left his lips. His voice was deep and rich, accented by a foreign intonation. She took his hand, all the while staring into his eyes as if drawn to him…

"This is a little embarrassing, Mr. Pierson. I was sent here by Mark Petrie. He has raised a few concerns about…about the town. You see…"

Pierson held up his hand. "Ms. Lawry," he began. She stopped, not even noticing that he knew her name without ever being introduced to her. "I have already spoken with Mr. Petrie. He seems to be a little…frustrated, if you will. He is upset with _me_, personally, because I drew up the plans for this town. Perhaps it was a mistake to model it after the original…" Pierson's face did not suggest that he took the blame. On the contrary, he appeared quite amused, a dark pleasure lining his face.

"I understand completely," she said tonelessly, gazing into his dark, soulless eyes. "Mark is out in my car as we speak. Would you like me to…?" The low groan of a floorboard behind Ms. Lawry snapped her out of Pierson's trance. She turned around just in time to see a large figure swing something down at her, and then she knew no more.

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The blood that ran through Mark's veins turned to ice. Alan stood on the porch, a long, double-barreled shotgun clutched in one of his gigantic hands. Mark gaped, his mouth opening and closing soundlessly. Robyn followed his gaze. "Mark, who is…?" she began.

A bullet whizzed past the car right outside her window. Mark didn't hesitate; he jumped into the driver's seat, turned the key that Ms. Lawry left in the ignition, and pressed the gas pedal. He swung the car around, tires squealing, making a U-turn in the driveway of the Marsten House. A deafening _bang_ rang through the air. Less than half a second later, the back windshield exploded in a sheet of flying glass. Robyn screamed, and Mark suddenly felt a shooting pain at his right shoulder. _'I've been shot…'_ he thought mutely, eyes wide. He slumped to the side, clawing at his arm. The car began swerving to the left. Robyn leaned over the headrest of the front seat and took control of the wheel, watching Mark out of the corner of her eye.

"Keep your foot on the gas, Mark. Stay with me. _Stay with me, damn it!_" she muttered desperately. She glanced into the rearview mirror as they disappeared over the hill. The last thing she saw was Ulric Pierson, the well-respected and admired city councilman of Jerusalem's Lot, grabbing the gun from the big man's hands and aiming it down at them, knowing full-well that they were too far away to be hit.

Once they reached the town, Robyn pulled the car to a stop in a field that overlooked a small red farmhouse. "We need to get you to a hospital," she said firmly. "That bullet…"

Mark shook his head grimly. "We can't be confined to a hospital. We tried that last time, and…" His voice trailed off, and he grimaced slightly. "You drive. We'll go to your house, make a plan from there." He opened the car door with his left hand and slid out. Robyn watched him carefully. Mark saw the guileless concern in her eyes and smiled half-heartedly. "It isn't that bad; I think the bullet fell out and the cut is fairly shallow."

Robyn nodded uncertainly, then averted her eyes, turning her gaze to the house in the meadow. A figure stepped out onto the porch, dressed in the strangest attire Robyn had ever seen. She couldn't even tell if they were a man or a woman. They were wearing a long black trench coat, thick gray mittens, perfectly round sunglasses, hip waders, and large baggy pants. Robyn felt the eyes, the accusing stare of a stranger. She shuddered before stepping inside the car.

The sun was getting its last look at the Lot as they pulled into the Evanoff's driveway. Robyn jumped out and rushed to the passenger side, opening the door for Mark. He looked at her quizzically, remaining in his seat. A small grin grazed his lips; Robyn's face remained stony.

"What about Ms. Lawry?"

Mark's smile faltered. "I don't know." He dropped his gaze to the ground. "I _told_ her not to go in. I told her to wait, to see what would happen…" He glanced up at her, his eyes flashing in the moonlight. "Now she's gone. It's down to us." His tone was unnerving, like that of a hopeless man trying to sound light-hearted.

"I think we should get inside…it's getting dark…" Robyn said, tilting her head back and looking up at the sky, which was slowly turning an inky blue-black

Mark's eyes widened. "Yeah. Yeah, okay." He got out of the car, wincing slightly as his forearm hit the side of the car. Robyn took him by the other arm and led him inside.

"Sit there for right now." She pointed to the couch on which he had slept two nights before. "I'll get some stuff out of the kitchen." Robyn started for the corridor. "I don't know how to treat injuries from…well, actually I don't know how to treat anything besides your basic paper cut…" she called. "I'll do what I can with the things I have, but without a doctor…"

"It's fine." He listened to the steady sounds of Robyn walking around the kitchen. "If you weren't here, I'd probably be sitting in my room at Eva's, scrubbing away with hot water and soap."

Robyn's rhythmic footsteps came to an abrupt halt. Mark turned to see her standing in the entryway between the kitchen and the living room, a bar of soap in one hand and a dripping washcloth in the other. He grinned good-naturedly at her, shaking his head.

"I told you I'm not too good at this…" She sat down on the edge of the couch. "I'm going to need you to take off your shirt, though." He hesitated. "Come on, hurry it up!"

Mark glanced at her, eyes wide. Slowly he stood up and pulled his ripped gray T-shirt over his head, his gaze unwavering from her face. He was about to sit back down when Robyn said, "Wait…" She leaned forward, peering around his waist. "Turn around."

He looked at her pleadingly, then sighed. Turning around obediently, he held his breath. "Oh my…" she started, staring at his muscled back. His skin was completely covered in unhealed bruises and jagged scars. Long, red scratches extended across the length of his broad shoulders, and a large welt pulsed beneath his left shoulder blade.

"That's why I didn't want to…" Mark began. He closed his eyes. "I just…"

"Who…?"

"My uncle. The man on the porch." Robyn nodded, not able to take her eyes off him. She was surprised to find his face not contorted with pain, but flushed with an innocent, childlike guilt.

"I thought so…by the way you looked at him…" Mark didn't reply. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't…"

"It's okay. I don't mind. It's just, seeing him _here_…" He met her gaze for a moment, then turned his eyes to the ground. Robyn dabbed the washcloth against his shoulder gingerly, and Mark winced. She felt his body tense as she carefully put a gauze on it, then taped it up with a bandage. Mark turned back to her, thanking her with his eyes, then reached down and squeezed her hand lightly. Robyn hesitated, then leaned towards him slowly…

…And in a flash, her face changed. Twisting, writhing, and suddenly it was _Barlow_ who was advancing towards Mark's neck, fangs inconceivably long and sharp, a crimson-black liquid smeared on his lips.

_"He killed my attendant, he can replace him…"_

Mark stumbled backwards, eyes wide with shock. He tripped over the coffee table and fell onto his back, but no matter what, he refused to look at Barlow…nothing could make him look into that face…

"Mark?" Even her voice was beginning to sound like _his_, low and gravelly and filled with a taunting loathing. "Mark…?"

He shook his head, hands clamped over his ears, eyes squeezed shut. Slowly, the room stopped spinning and the unrelenting, incessant throbbing in his head diminished to a raw thud. He opened his eyes and saw that Robyn had backed up against the wall, her face contorted into an expression of alarm and fear. "Are you alright? I…I'm sorry if I…"

"No." He propped himself up on his elbows and stared at her. She walked over tentatively and helped him up, guiding him to the couch. He lay down, and she sat next to his head. "Don't apologize…it wasn't your fault. I…" He was interrupted by a soft tapping behind him. Simultaneously, they turned around to see Ms. Lawry standing at the screen door.

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Disbelief shot through Mark's body like a jolt of electricity, followed shortly by a burst of happiness in his chest. Then, the sinking, pessimistic confusion with which Mark had become so well acquainted. Ms. Lawry's face was long and gaunt, her eyes cloudy, mouth hanging slack. A bruise stood out prominently on the side of her head by the temple. "Can I come in?" she croaked in a low voice, staring at him with wide, unblinking eyes.

"Sure…what happened up there? How…?" Ms. Lawry stepped inside slowly, hesitantly. Her eyes swiveled from side to side nervously, as if she would have done anything just to stay outside in the night. A moment later, Mark wished she would have, too.

Ulric Pierson followed her in, cloaked in a black cape, with his eyes covered by a dark, wide-brimmed hat. He held a small handgun, pointed at the small of Ms. Lawry's back. Alan Thornton shambled after him, his small, piggish eyes locked on Mark. A cruel, maddening smile crossed his lips.

Mark leapt to his feet, and Robyn uttered a silent scream. For a moment, no one moved. A second passed by, but it felt like an eternity. Then, Pierson spoke. "Your uncle has been worried sick about you, Mister Petrie. He's spoken of nothing else." Without warning, he swung the gun around to Mark and aimed it at his bare chest. He looked over at Robyn, and a leering grin appeared on his face. "You'll be coming with me now, Ms. Evanoff."

Robyn stood rooted to the spot, mouth gaping. A shot rang out, and Mark felt a surge of fire following the exact path of the first bullet, ripping the bandage from his skin. He dropped to one knee, clutching his shoulder. Pulling his hand down in front of his face, he found it warm, sticky, and dyed scarlet with blood. Robyn rushed to his side, but Pierson pointed the barrel at the center of her forehead. He jerked the gun to the right twice in Alan's direction. She stood up slowly, and Alan took one stride and caught her by the arm.

Mark looked up at Pierson, his stare narrowed dangerously. There was no need to speak; the hatred that burned in Mark's eyes said enough. Pierson returned his gaze steadily with a hint of dark amusement twinkling in his eyes. "I'm quite willing to make a trade, Mister Petrie." He roughly shoved Ms. Lawry at him. "You'll find that I'm a very _reasonable _person. After all, we have no use for a snitch anymore."

Robyn and Mark turned their eyes to Ms. Lawry. Pierson laughed coldly, his voice ringing in the silence. "We wouldn't have been able to find you both without her assistance."

Pierson's eyes swept over an enraged Mark, a cowering Ms. Lawry, and then Alan's gaze. Smirking, he nodded to him. Alan withdrew a concealed hand gun and aimed it at the ceiling. There was a clap of something like thunder, and the hanging light above them exploded. Shards of glass flew everywhere, and the room was thrown into complete, absolute darkness.

Mark took a few blind steps towards them, hands clenched in fists, knuckles ghost-white. In the blink of an eye, Pierson pointed the pistol at Mark's feet. A loud blast jolted Mark, and he momentarily froze before being knocked onto his back from the explosion. A small hole smoldered in the carpet not one inch away from where Mark's foot had been.

Getting up, Mark pushed his way towards them, when a hand grasped his arm. He turned furiously to see Ms. Lawry, her eyes as round as quarters and pleading fearfully.

"Let me go," he said quietly, his voice low and dangerous.

"Killing yourself right now won't help anyone."

He glanced back at Pierson, despising every feature of him: his greased black hair; his spotless, pressed suit and polished shoes; his houndish, grinning face. "I'll be seeing you tomorrow morning," Mark murmured, his eyes glazed yet directly focused. "Daybreak."

Pierson smirked, then reached over and patted Robyn's head, much like what a grandmother would do to a small child. "Don't worry, Mister Petrie. Our leader is patient. We won't touch a hair on her head." He opened the door for Alan, who held Robyn by the arm.

For a moment, Mark met Robyn's wide eyes. "I won't let anything happed to you," he mouthed wordlessly to her. She glanced over at Pierson apprehensively, then she nodded.

Pierson pushed her out the door, then turned and said, "You have my word on that, Mister Petrie. We can't throw a party without the guest of honor…" He took off his hat and bowed deeply, not taking his eyes off of Mark. There was a swish of a cloak, and he was gone.

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Mark and Ms. Lawry sat at the kitchen table, not speaking, not moving, barely even _breathing_. Even though she did not believe in vampires, Ms. Lawry could no longer deny the ambiance of some sort of…dark, malevolent presence. Something was happening.

"Listen to me, Mark." He remained motionless, defiantly staring past her face, instead gazing through the window and out into the night. Somewhere, a dog barked. It began to snarl and growl angrily, menacingly. A squealing yelp, then all was silent. Mark's face remained hard and unflinching. "I couldn't help it! When I looked at _him_…it was almost like he could _control_…" Her voice trailed off, and she sighed irately, unable to explain.

Mark turned his eyes to her slowly. "Like he could control you? You heard him say things in your head, things that nobody else was supposed to know…?" he asked, horror dawning on his face.

Ms. Lawry nodded hesitantly, her brow narrowed with confusion. "How did you know?"

He didn't answer. Standing suddenly, the legs of his chair scraping the linoleum floor loudly, he whispered, "That isn't possible. He…he can't do that…" He backed up slowly, not taking his eyes off her. "Pierson's just a mortal…"

Ms. Lawry frowned deeply. "Mark, there are _no such thing as vampires._ Whatever is going on around here…"

Mark slammed his fist down on the table, causing the windows to rattle and Ms. Lawry to recoil. "We both the Lot isn't safe, but _you _think that's just because my uncle's here. Well, let me tell you something, Ms. Lawry." He leaned down towards her, his face inches from hers. "Alan's the least of our troubles." Mark dropped his gaze and his voice lowered. "I think you should give me the benefit of the doubt here, Ms. Lawry, being that it's _your_ fault Robyn's being held captive up in that house."

Ms. Lawry flinched as if he had hit her. "Mark, I…"

He shook his head. "Don't bother." He strode out of the room, trying urgently to pay no attention to Ms. Lawry's unrelenting stare. Ascending the stairs, Mark's feet carried him subconsciously to his old room. He opened the door and stood in the entryway to his bedroom, swaying a little. And suddenly, Mark Petrie was home; his four-post bed was situated against the far wall, clothes were scattered across the floor, magazines lay littered on his bed. He staggered forward and fell onto his mattress, dry, hacking sobs escaping from his throat. Burying his head in his pillow, Mark lay in the darkness for what felt like an eternity, listening to the shrill sound of nothingness that was slowly engulfing him.

The low whispering below him broke the tranquility. Mark held his breath, straining his ears, terrified yet desperate to hear…

Then, the unmistakable _click_ of a window latch. Mark sat bolt upright in his bed. The creak of floorboards echoed through the halls, followed by a murmuring chuckle, then the most petrifying sound of all: utter silence. For a moment, Mark thought he could hear something like a satisfied sucking sound, then a low moan. He crept out of bed, remembering suddenly to get his cross out of his pocket just as he reached the door. Quickly yet as silent as the dead, he made his way to the top of the stairs. Peering down over the banister into the living room below, Mark felt his heart stop for an instant, complete terror immobilizing him.

Grant stood beside Ms. Lawry's crumpled body, his eyes tiny pinpricks in the darkened room. His skin, which in life had been unnaturally white, was now glowing from some concealed unholy flame.

Mark stumbled backwards, trying desperately not to make any noise, but he stepped on the top stair (_'Damn that creaky step!'_) and a groan that, to Mark, sounded nothing less than deafening shattered the silence. Grant's eyes grew wide and, in one fluid movement, darted from Ms. Lawry up to Mark. A cruel little smile formed on his crimson-stained mouth.

_"Come on down, Mark,"_ Grant called. _"It isn't so bad…actually, it's really quite fun."_ Grant licked the blood off his lips. Mark looked away, instead turning his gaze to Ms. Lawry. She was so _pale_, so drained of any color. Her eyes stared lifelessly up at the ceiling, glazed and unmoving.

Suddenly, Grant's body flickered and disappeared. A second later, he was at the base of the stairs, grinning up at Mark with shining white eyes. _"Let's go flying, Mark. All around the town…"_ The corners of his mouth quivered, and he bared his needle-like fangs.

Mark glanced out the window behind Grant. An orange tint was slowly breaking the darkness, spilling across the Lot. "Time to go, Grant," he whispered hoarsely. The light peeked into the house through the window, and a pitched hissing filled the air, followed shortly by a puff of vapor that lifted itself from a small patch of burned red skin on Grant's arm. He shrieked and leapt backwards, turning wildly away from the sun. Grant lunged towards the retreating shadows, groping madly at the doorknob to the basement. Turning his head to Mark, he murmured, "Forgive me…" Then, he fell forwards, straight as a board, plummeting down into the darkness. The last look Mark got of him was of his eyes, rolled backwards into his head, bloodshot and glassy. There were a few loud thumps, then a disquieting stillness.

Hesitating, Mark edged down the stairs and stood in front of the heavy wooden door as it swung back and forth on its hinges. He searched the inside wall for a switch and, upon finding it, flicked it upright. Grant lay in a heap at the bottom of the stairs, his legs bent at impossible, grotesque angles, eyes closed. Mark grasped his cross tightly in his hand and shut the door.

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Alone. All alone. Mark stood in front of the door to the outside, watching the sun rise slowly. He held the sharpened leg of the kitchen table in one hand, his small gravestone cross in the other. The shadows drew back along the landscape up towards the Marsten House. The last of the darkness fled, and Jerusalem's Lot was once again asleep. Mark glanced back at Ms. Lawry's body, now covered with the Evanoff's lacy white tablecloth, and grimaced. Turning the large brass knob, he stepped out into the sunlight.

Mark walked down the driveway to the curb and stepped down onto the road. A moment later, he withdrew his foot quickly; the street was covered with four inches of water. He glanced down the countryside past the house and saw that the bank of the creak had been washed away, replaced by a mud-covered knoll. The snow had melted, thereby flooding the Lot a few inches. Mark continued down the sidewalk, shaking off his foot.

A red SUV roared around the corner, sending waves of water up onto the lawns. Without thinking, Mark flung himself out into the street in front of the car. "Stop! Stop, please…" he shouted, waving his arms frantically.

The driver stopped not a half foot away from his chest. Mark stepped around the car and peered into the front seat. A you man, probably in his early thirties, sat behind the wheel, his face long and unshaven. "Hey, mister, could you drive me up there?" Mark asked, pointing up at the Marsten House.

The man's eyes grew wide behind his large round glasses. He jerked his head around and stared at Mark. "My little girl died this morning. I found her in her room. She was so _white_…so white. My wife's been missing for three days. I called the sheriff's office, but there's no answer."

Mark waited hesitantly. "So…can you give me the ride?"

A loud booming cackle echoed through the street. The man laughed and laughed, his face growing steadily redder. The eyes behind the glasses, already magnified, were as big as half-dollars. He stopped suddenly, his breath accelerated, and turned slowly to Mark. "Hell, no," he whispered croakily. He pressed the gas pedal, and the tires spun in place for a moment, drenching Mark with a surge of water. The car sped off, and Mark was once again alone.

Glancing up at the Marsten House, Mark grew increasingly aware of a dull, low thumping sound. Louder and louder, the thuds became deafening in his ears. It took him a moment to realize it was his own heart that was banging painfully inside his chest. He started towards the center of town, his eyes locked on that house that loomed before him. The warm October sun had melted the snow, but Mark shivered and pulled his jacket closer to himself. A certain coldness radiated from him, and goosebumps ran up and down his arms. Water rushed past his ankles, carrying sticks, leaves, and garbage. Mark didn't notice.

A car sat in the street, slammed into a light pole. Smoke rose from the engine, and the sour smell of gasoline floated through the air. Mark walked around the front cautiously, and looked into the front seat. A woman sat inside, dead; her mouth stretched taught, two tiny red marks on the side of her neck. Her skin, tinted a sickening green, was callused with decomposing scars, and maggots squirmed from her empty eye sockets.

Mark stumbled backwards, his mouth clenched shut, fighting down the strong urge to vomit. He gave a few choking grunts, the wet odor of decay overwhelming him, and his eyes squeezed shut. Backing up against a building, he let his staggered breath go and opened his eyes and saw a face staring at him. Mark gasped out loud and turned to duck into the doorway. An old man, at least in his eighties, watched him through the window, grinning sinisterly. His eyes remained wide and shiny, when suddenly he tipped forward, his bald head hitting the glass with a soft thud. Mark blinked in surprise. Somewhere in the house, a floorboard creaked.

Hesitating, Mark twisted the handle to the door and opened it slowly. He held his breath, hoping the hinges had been well-oiled. _Creeeak._ The screech of metal against metal echoed through the foyer, which reeked even worse than it had outside. Holding his hand over his mouth, he edged along the wall towards the window. The man still sat in front of the window, motionless, in a big easy chair. His back was smeared with blood, and sticking out of his back was…

_A stake._

The man twitched, a muffled moan escaping his lips. Suddenly, his eyes flew open and he hissed like a snake, his tongue extending from his mouth. Without any uncertainty, Mark leapt over to him and pushed the stake down deeper into his heart. The man screeched and growled, the windows shaking with the deep resonating sound. He twisted and writhed, screaming in pain, before falling to the ground and convulsed as if he was having a seizure. Dark red-black streams poured from his eyes, as if the man cried blood. Then, as if a magnet pulled him, he shot up through the ceiling in a cloud of smoke, the stake falling back onto the ground. Mark let out the breath from his lungs through the corners of his mouth.

Then, above him, a door slammed. He froze, eyes wildly searching, but only a musty silence responded. Mark crossed the room quietly, heading towards the stairs. He kept glancing around, hunting for any sign of life. The hallway above him was dark, no sunlight…

"Hello?" he croaked. "Is someone up there?" A choked, muffled whimper responded, filled with fear. "I'm coming up…stay where you are." He reached the top of the staircase and stopped. A small boy, no more than ten, crawled out from the shadows. He had long, thin blonde hair, wide gray eyes, and chubby cheeks smeared with blood. They stared at each other for a moment, analyzing, when suddenly the boy leaped towards him, teeth bared, whipping out a miniature baseball bat that he had hidden behind his back.

Mark stumbled backwards, holding out his hands. "I'm not going to hurt you, kid!" The child hesitated, then dropped the bat. Mark took a few steps toward him. "Did you do that downstairs?"

"I had to," the boy whispered. "He was gonna bite me!" His voice was slowly rising with hysteria. "My mum is gone. Grandpa was staying with me, so I could take care of him, but he started acting all…different." The boy's face became scrunched in an effort to hold back tears. "But last night, he was so scary. His eyes…his eyes were white and shiny. And when he talked he sounded like a _snake_…" He shuddered. "I don't like snakes," he whispered. "So today, when he was sitting in his chair downstairs, the chair that never gets hit by the sun…Grandpa didn't like the sun much." He gave a small sniffle and wiped his nose with his sleeve. "I went out back to get a stick, like they do in the movies with the people who have pointy teeth like Grandpa's. And I made it sharp all by myself, see?"

The boy held out his hands, and Mark looked down at them. They were callused and scratched, small blisters formed at the base of each finger. "And then I pushed it in his back while he was sleeping. I thought it would fix him, but he looked at me, and I ran…" The boy's voice wavered, and large, fat tears rolled down his crimson-stained cheeks. "I didn't want to hurt him!" he wailed loudly. "I just wanted my Grandpa back…"

Mark knelt down next to the child awkwardly, not knowing what to do. But when he met his round gray eyes, Mark's defenses collapsed. He took him in his arms and hugged him tightly.


	9. It's All Relative

Author's Note: Thanks everybody for reviewing! You all ROCK! Sorry this one took so long…school, you know how it is…Anywho, I strongly recommend that you go back and review my story, 'cause I adjusted some of it, and some of those changes are crucial to the plot. If you don't, oh well. Just enjoy and REVIEW!!!

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**CHAPTER EIGHT**

His name was Chanley, and he was nine and a half. Not nine, nine _and a half._ Chanley's mother had left for work two days earlier, the night shift, and had never come home. When Chanley and Mark walked out the door and into the sunshine, hand in hand, Chanley had pointed excitedly at the green car that Mark had passed when he had first entered the main part of town. "That's my mom's car!" Chanley yelled, breaking free and running towards the car.

Mark felt the color drain from his face. "No, Chanley!" he called desperately. But Chanley had already reached the car. Any moment then, Mark would hear the screaming, the horrified shrieks…

Chanley came back to him, head hung in disappointment. "Empty," he muttered, his eyes kept on the ground.

Mark jogged over to the car, brow furrowed. The front seat of the car was stained red and ripped, the stuffing exposed, but the body was gone. Mark took a few steps back, glancing around the street worriedly. "Let's go." Mark held out his hand, and Chanley took it, his shoulders slumped in frustration.

"Mark?" Chanley looked up at him, eyes wide.

"Hmm?"

"Do you know what happened to my mom?"

Mark didn't answer right away. Instead, he turned his gaze to the Marsten House, standing on the hill before them, laughing at them in its malevolent splendor. A shiver ran up his spine, causing him to shudder. He glanced down at Chanley, wondering what to say. Mark didn't have much experience with caring for others; the only person he had ever needed to worry about was himself. "I'm sure she's okay, Chanley."

Chanley's head drooped, and he shoved his tiny hands in the pockets of his jeans. Mark sighed, instantly sensing that Chanley didn't believe him. "Maybe she's like Grandpa now." He rubbed his nose with the back of his hand. "I don't want to find her if she is."

Mark stopped suddenly and turned to him. "Hey." Chanley raised his head and looked at him, eyes filled with doubt. "I'm not going to leave you behind." The boy gave him a small smile. "But I have to do something very dangerous right now. The…the bad guys took a friend of mine. I have to go save her." He hesitated, running his fingers through his hair. "You don't have to come with me. In fact, I don't want you to." Chanley looked up at him, eyes wide. "They won't hurt you during the day. You can stay in my…"

Chanley clutched Mark's arm desperately. "You can't leave me by myself! I'm…I don't…" He dissolved into tears, sniffling and bawling. "I ca-can't be b-by myself. I'm so sc-_scared…_"

Mark knelt next to him, meeting his bloodshot eyes. "I don't want to have to be responsible for you. It's going to be scary, even for me; I'm walking right into the lion's den, Chanley!"

"I'd rather have to fight a bunch of lions than my Grandpa," Chanley whispered. "He was so scary…"

Mark was about to say no, refuse; he would sling Chanley over his shoulder, throw him into Robyn's house through the front door, and bolt the lock. But the fear that shone in Chanley's eyes…complete, naïve trust…Mark felt himself give in. "You'll have to stay alert. And you can't make noise. Don't be scared by anything you see, and don't look any of the bad guys in the eye."

Chanley nodded solemnly, as if he had just been issued a draft card. "Where are we going?"

"Up there," Mark responded, pointing to the Marsten House.

Chanley's face paled. "Up…there?" he murmured, his voice cracking.

"If you're not up to it, Chanley…"

The boy shook his head vigorously. "Let's go."

Main Street was completely flooded, the water almost reaching the top of the concrete sidewalk on which Mark and Chanley walked. Dead mice and rats floated past them, Chanley staring, fascinated, at their tiny immobile bodies. Mark grimaced and averted his eyes.

They reached the bottom of the hill. "Do you believe in monsters?" Chanley asked suddenly, his voice hushed in a whisper.

Mark's eyes remained locked on the house. "Yes."

-----------------------------------------

She awoke in complete darkness. At first, she couldn't see anything…she was frozen in terror. _'I'm blind!'_ she thought, horrified. Then, as her eyes adjusted to the black shadows, the room came into focus. Something cold and wet fell onto her face. She looked up, and another drop trickled onto her cheek. Leaky pipes. She was in a basement.

Robyn was acutely aware of a dull throbbing in her head. She tried to reach up to her face with her hands, but she stopped suddenly. She couldn't move her limbs; she was paralyzed. Frantically, she looked around and saw her arms chained above her head, locked onto the pipe that leaked water. The cuffs rattled, rust flaking off and falling into her hair. She dangled from the chain helplessly, her toes barely skimming the cold, hard floor.

A door, quite nearby judging by the sound of it, slammed shut. Robyn's eyes grew wide. The distinct sound of footsteps echoed on the other side of the wall, the creaking of old floorboards causing the walls to shudder. They stopped outside the door, and Robyn heard the click of a lock. A moment later, Ulric Pierson stepped inside. With an unhesitating air of confidence, he walked up to her and reached out his hand towards her face. Robyn flinched, but Pierson simply smiled and pulled a chain that dangled next to her ear. A light bulb next above them flickered, the quiet tinkling of electricity buzzing overhead.

"You have a nasty cut on your forehead, Ms. Evanoff. You'll want to have that looked at soon."

She glared at him and, without breaking the gaze, bent her elbow towards her face and rubbed it against her forehead. It scraped against a large, newly-formed scab on her left temple. The moment she touched it, she felt the skin tear away and blood pour freely from the freshly opened wound. It dripped down into her eyes, and she blinked it away furiously. "What did you do to Mark?" she demanded, her eyes narrowing. "Why isn't he here yet?"

Pierson shrugged nonchalantly. "Your guess is as good as mine. Perhaps his friend Ms. Lawry convinced him that staying here would result in…less-than-enjoyable consequences."

"Liar," she whispered.

He gave a long, exaggerated sigh. "It's a shame, really. He missed a great opportunity. A chance to…begin again, if you will. Wipe the slate clean. Turn over a new leaf."

"What are you talking about?"

"His _grandmother,_ my dear. She has been seeking him…desperately seeking…" he murmured.

"So she's real…?" Robyn gasped, shocked.

Pierson smiled wickedly. "Oh, yes, Ms. Evanoff. She's real. And if Master Petrie fails to make an appearance, you shall have the pleasure of making her acquaintance."

-----------------------------------------

Robert Jackson sat at his desk, tapping the tip of his pen against the edge of the keyboard. Frustrated, he ran his grizzled hand through his long dark blonde hair. Suddenly, he slammed his fist down on the wood. The raven-haired woman in the cubicle next to him jumped.

"What's wrong, Bobby?" she asked, getting up and walking over to him, leaning down towards the computer screen.

He sighed. "What do you think is wrong, Janette? I haven't had a decent article in God knows how long…I mean, I haven't found a damn thing in the police reports or nothing…"

_"Anything_. You haven't found a damn thing in the police reports or _anything_." She smiled wryly. "What did you expect? Derry isn't exactly the most 'happening' place around. If you wanted to write for a _real_ paper, you should have moved to New York or L.A. Not Maine."

Bobby closed his bloodshot eyes. "I've called Ryans twice today. Nothing. The bastard won't even take my calls anymore. His secretary gives me the old, 'He's in an important conference,' spiel and hangs up on me." He looked over at Janette and frowned.

Janette shrugged. "I don't have any advice to give you…I'm in the same spot you are. This newspaper is going down the tube. We both know it, and I assume Frank does, too."

Picking up his bag from the floor, Bobby laughed hollowly. "You assume much if you think _Frank_ has any idea as to what's going on. The man can hardly remember what he ate for breakfast."

Frank Dietz was the CEO of the Derry County weekly newspaper staff. At seventy-five, Frank clung to the paper as his only foundation for excitement in his quickly fading life. His wife had died of a stroke the year before, and his son, fifty-two at the time, suffered a heart attack while playing golf in Georgia one week later. With his memory swiftly evaporating, the only thing Frank hadn't lost was his quick wit and dry sense of humor. But lately, Derry County had been overgrown with old gossip and dull, uninteresting news on which no newspaper could ever report.

Janette smiled good-naturedly. "He means well. But if this paper is going to stay in business for another year, we need more news. And we can't deny it anymore: Derry is going to pot. People are moving out left and right." She turned and walked to her desk. "It isn't just us, either. Amsted and Cumberland are suffering, too." Janette paused, leaning behind her computer to switch it off. "Most of the towns around here aren't even registered with Maine's legislature. I mean, I haven't visited Hummel Valley in over two years, not to mention the fact that I've never even _seen_ 'Salem's Lot since it was reconstructed. I don't know if anyone's even living there. It's probably a ghost town by now…" Janette continued rambling, glancing back over her shoulder. "Honestly, would you want to live in a town that just went up in flames without any explanation? And all those people; they just _disappeared_…" She gathered her things and then looked back at him, grinning. "So if you happen to find anything on your way home, don't hog it all for yourself. Give me a call," she said jokingly.

Bobby smirked, but made no reply. Stuffing the few notes he had written over the past week into his briefcase, he threw on his overcoat and headed for the door. He heard the faint farewell of Janette float through the halls as he strolled down the darkened corridor and out to his 1994 Ford truck.

The dirt road that stretched out from the town was unusually dusty, the clouds of dirt rising from the ground like fog. Small stones hit the bottom of Bobby's Jeep, making a loud clunking noise every few seconds. A half-hour later, he came up to the fork where the road split unevenly. The right path became concrete, while the left remained unpaved and narrow, overgrown with weeds and tree branches. He slowed his car to a stop.

For no particular reason, Bobby hesitated and flicked on his high beams. He could see the left path starting up into a slope, going higher and higher until the tops of the trees blocked his line of sight. Bobby had never been up that road. He had never been tempted to, either. Normally, he was in a hurry to get home to his sister and brother-in-law. Today, however, Bobby was overcome by a strange sense of stirring curiosity.

He swung his steering wheel to the left and started up the hill. The rusty old sign to the right hand side of the road went unnoticed. The bushes and brambles covered the peeling painted words. One side of the sign was completely coated with a furry green moss, so now it read, "---salem's Lot, 15 miles."

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The forest surrounding Jerusalem's Lot is always pitch black, even in the middle of the day, when the sun is highest in the sky. December, in its arctic wintriness, never succeeds in its attempts to rob the trees of their natural fullness. Pine trees never loose their needles.

As soon as one passes over the snowcapped mountains that encompass the Lot and its woods, it as if a veil is drawn over their eyes. All becomes gray and misty, little color brightens the fields as they drive past the dilapidated sign welcoming visitors into the town. But Jerusalem's Lot rarely has the pleasure of housing visitors. There is just something _cold_ about the place…

As one drives through the abandoned streets of the Lot, an icy chill makes its way up the spine, clutching the mind in a web of thoughts pertaining to death, fear, and loneliness. The roads are normally empty, and few pedestrians walk the streets. Those that _do_ grace the sidewalks tread along as though their legs are weighed down by bags of lead or stone. Some just stand on the corners, staring up at the dark deity that sits above the town, watching them.

This is what Bobby Jackson saw as he drove down Main Street. Two figures waited by a broken traffic light, their heads tilted up towards the large house atop the hill. The smaller of the two hugged himself, clutching his body for warmth. The other was motionless, as though made of marble. The little one, assumedly a child, pulled on the arm of his friend, and they started across the street, oblivious of the car. Bobby slammed his brakes and blew the horn.

"Watch where you're going, will you?" he shouted angrily, opening the door of his car and sticking his head out.

The two travelers stared at the car as though they were deer caught in the beam of headlights. Bobby suddenly felt an unexplainable discomfort as they watched him, their bodies completely frozen. "Are you two alright?"

The taller one pulled the child behind him protectively. "Who are you?" he called, his voice deep and filled with suspicion. His dark eyes gleamed, hair falling in front of his face.

Bobby took a few cautious steps towards them, holding up his hands to show he was harmless. "I'm Bobby, Bobby Jackson. Reporter for the Derry Times." He reached out his hand to the smaller boy, but the child shrunk away from him, his blue eyes wide. "I don't want to hurt you…" The two companions said nothing. "What happened here? Where is everybody?"

"They're all still here…" The boy looked up at the buildings that were surrounding, almost engulfing them. "They're sleeping," he whispered, as if afraid of waking the unseen people.

Bobby glanced up at the older one, hoping for an explanation, but he just received a cold, stony stare.

"What are you guys' names?" Bobby asked uncertainly.

"I'm Chanley," the little boy answered, staring up at Bobby. "This is Mark." He pulled on his friend's jacket, his small hand grasping the dark blue wool-like material of Mark's sleeve.

Bobby bent down next to him, putting on his warmest smile. "And where are you and Mark going?"

"Up there." Chanley pointed to something behind Bobby. He turned, and his eyes were immediately drawn to the dark outline of a house atop the hill that overlooked the town.

Turning from Chanley to Mark, Bobby asked, "Why?"

"What's it to you?" Mark responded, his eyes narrowing. Bobby frowned, confused and somewhat insulted.

"I'm just…curious, is all. I've never been here before, and there isn't anybody around. It's like the place is dead…"

Mark gave a loud, hollow laugh, but his eyes remained cold. "This place isn't dead; in fact, I'd classify it as _undead_." Bobby's brow furrowed. "If you have nothing else to ask, Mr. Reporter, I'd suggest you leave. Soon, if possible." Mark smiled wryly. "In fact, I'd leave right now."

"What's going on around here? If something happened, I want to help." Bobby folded his arms over his chest.

"You wouldn't _believe_ us, let alone help. You're wasting your time." Mark turned to leave.

"Mark…" Mark looked down at Chanley, his eyes forming perfect circles. "Let him stay. Maybe he could help get your friend back." Mark glanced at Bobby, his eyes intense and distrustful, before returning his gaze to Chanley. "We can't do it by ourselves. There are too many of them, and I'm…" Chanley hesitated, dropping his eyes to the sidewalk. "I'm scared…"

Bobby looked between the two of them, utterly bewildered. _'Too many of them?' What the hell did **that** mean?_ "Listen, you guys, maybe you should get in touch with the sheriff. He…"

Mark snorted. "Too late. He's gone."

"Gone where?"

There was a moment of absolute stillness before Mark turned to face Bobby. "Mr. Jackson…" Mark gave him a strange half-grin, his eyes gleaming. "Have you ever heard of a place called Hell?"

-----------------------------------------

Once again, Mark found himself in the passenger seat of a vehicle traveling up to the Marsten House. Not for the first time, he wondered why he had allowed himself to welcome an obvious trap with open arms. _Robyn,_ he thought silently. _Robyn is up there._

Chanley sat in the back seat, chewing lightly on the tip of his thumb. He stared out the window, but his eyes were not directed up at the house; instead, he was watching the houses in the center of town. Mark turned back to look at him, eyes softening at the sight of the small child. He looked so fragile, almost untouched by everything he had seen. Mark looked into his eyes, and for a moment, he thought he saw something strange…indescribable, dark. A second later, the bright blueness returned, and Chanley looked up at Mark, eyes wide in innocence. Mark hesitated, then turned back around to face the Marsten House.

The car slowed to a stop in the driveway. Bobby turned to Mark, frowning slightly. "What exactly are you hoping to find here, Mark? This place looks like it hasn't been lived in for fifty years." He peered out the window, his eyes scanning the outside of the house.

Mark raised his eyebrows. "That's funny, being that the town was rebuilt two years ago." Without waiting for a reply, he opened the door and stepped out, shivering in the cold autumn air.

Bobby shrugged and followed suit, pulling his scarf up around his ears and his hat down over his long blonde hair. Chanley remained in the car, clutching his knees to his chest.

"Come on, Chanley. We have to get inside," Mark called through the glass, rapping on the window. The boy shook his head, his eyes locked on Mark's. Mark turned to Bobby helplessly.

"Why can't you just lock the doors and let him stay there? Maybe the house freaks him out…" Bobby said. "I mean, _I'd_ be scared if I was his age." He glanced nervously up at the windows of the Marsten House, and they almost seemed to stare dauntlessly back.

Mark looked back at Chanley, torn between responsibilities. "I have to get her, Chanley! _Please!_" No response. Mark's shoulders slumped, and he ran his fingers through his hair. "Could you stay out here with him, Jackson? I need to get in there before it's too late…"

"Yeah. Okay," Bobby replied a little too enthusiastically. Mark didn't care. "When will you be back?"

"As soon as possible. But you have to be ready when we get outside; we might have to get out of here pretty damn quick." Mark took a few steps towards the Marsten House before turning back one last time. "You're sure you're okay with this?" he asked apprehensively.

Bobby nodded. "Get going. You said you were in a hurry." Mark exhaled slowly, then jogged up the front stairs. He stood in front of the door for a second before grasping the knob and turning it. "Aren't you gonna knock first?" Bobby called up to him.

Mark didn't reply. Instead, he stepped inside, his head turning from side to side anxiously in the darkness. He shut the door with a soft thud, and Bobby and Chanley were left alone.

The stench hadn't changed. It was the first thought that ran through Mark's head as he stood inside. It smelled exactly as it did the last time he was inside…no, not the last time. It was the same odor he had smelled when he was with Susan, when Barlow had been hiding in the basement…

Slowly, the utter silence of the house dawned on him. If a pin had dropped in the room next to him, Mark was sure he would have had a heart attack. Suddenly, he had the strange urge to scream at the top of his lungs, beat his chest, hoot and holler…_anything_ to break the quiet. An odd buzzing sound filled his ears, and it took a moment for him to realize that it was simply the silence, ringing piercingly through the halls.

Cautiously, Mark made his way to the basement. There was no doubt in his mind as to _where_ Pierson was keeping her. _'Bad guys usually don't waver from tradition,'_ the child within him whispered. He opened the door slowly, the soft creaking almost deafening to his ears.

_"Mark?"_ He froze. Robyn. _"I can't see. It's so dark…"_ No. Not Robyn…_Susan._ But Susan was dead. Susan had burned in the fire. Another voice floated up from the shadows.

_"Come down, boy…"_ Mark clamped his hands over his ears. It wasn't real. It wasn't real. Ben had shoved a stake through that bastard's heart. _"I admire you. Come down for a taste…"_ And yet he heard it; he could never forget that deep, gravelly voice. _"There's enough here for two…"_

A hand reached up for him in the darkness, and before Mark could react, it grasped the collar of his shirt.

-----------------------------------------

Mark was ready to shout, an icy chill shooting down his back, but the hand quickly found his mouth and clamped it shut. "Don't…say…a word…" a voice hissed up at him.

Robyn's face peered up at him through the blackness, pale and damp with sweat. "What are you doing here?"

Gaping incredulously at her, he replied, "What am I doing? I'm getting you out of here!" The groan of flooring echoed above them, and he pulled her down into the shadows.

"I thought you left…"

Mark stared at her, his deep brown eyes penetrating her soft green ones. "Why would I do that? Who said I left…?"

"Mr. Pierson. I didn't believe him at first, but when you didn't come, I started to wonder…"

"How did you get out?"

Robyn gave him a small smile. "Don't underestimate what a girl will do in a tight spot." She reached up towards her red hair and pulled out a small brown bobby pin. Holding it up to him, she said, "You wouldn't believe what these babies can do, Mr. Petrie."

The small shimmer of light that fell through the crack beneath the door went out. The creak of floorboards overhead meant one thing: someone was directly outside the door. Before either Mark or Robyn had time to respond, the basement door flew open and Ulric Pierson stood before them, grinning upon them as one might look at a vat of chocolate.

With one sudden, fluid motion, he stretched out his arm and shoved Robyn roughly downwards, causing her to topple into Mark. Together, they fell down the wooden stairs, each thump echoing through the basement. Mark landed first, on his back, the hard concrete floor causing an intense twinge of pain to burst up his spine. Hearing the thuds of Robyn's body as she plummeted down towards him, Mark tried to roll over, but the throbbing in his back stopped him in his tracks. Robyn landed on top of him, her elbow digging into his ribcage.

Pierson's dark outline descended the stairs with menacing indolence. Robyn sank beneath his shadow, pressing herself against the brick wall behind them. Mark stood up slowly, his eyes not wavering from Pierson's face. "Look, I'm here, alright? You don't need her."

The grin that was dancing across Pierson's face widened. "I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about, Master Petrie. Who said you were the _only _objective?" Mark hesitated, keeping silent. Pierson gave a loud, exaggerated sigh. "Conceited Master Petrie, always thinking of himself…always assuming that _he's_ the object of everyone's attention. I would be willing to…please pardon the pun, _stake_…gamble, if you will, that it never crossed your mind that your Ms. Evanoff is a key ingredient in our plans, too."

Mark froze, confusion clouding his mind. He glanced over his shoulder at Robyn, whose eyes had become wide, glassy circles, before turning back to Pierson. "What are you talking about?"

"Let me tell you a little story, Master Petrie." Mark didn't reply, instead turning his gaze to the small window at the top of the ceiling. The sun was past its halfway point…perhaps three or four in the afternoon. Only a few hours left. He looked back at Pierson, eyes narrowed.

"Once upon a time, a man came to Jerusalem's Lot. With him, he brought his partner, a creature of unspeakable power. They had plans to flourish in the new land, plans that could not fail. But two people intercepted these arrangements, destroying the man and the great immortal being. So, a few years later, another man came to the Lot with only one plot: revenge. Revenge on those who had murdered his father and his father's master." Pierson leaned forwards, his face inches from Mark's. "Revenge that will be fulfilled."

Mark felt his heart skip a beat, his breath shortening. "His…father?" he whispered in shock. "You're…?"

"Ulric Pierson Straker. Son of the Immortal One's right-hand man, his partner, his comrade." Pierson narrowed his eyes, glaring at Mark intensely. "So how is it a skinny little fourteen-year-old boy like yourself managed to defeat the Unholy Creature's helper?" His eyes drifted lazily over to Robyn. "Or how did a pretty-boy writer destroy the Unholy Creature itself?"

Mark's gaze darted between Robyn and Pierson anxiously. "How does Robyn fit into any of this? If you have a bone to pick with someone, it should be me. She hasn't done anything…"

"Ben Mears can no longer suffer…well, he can no longer suffer anywhere that I can reach him. Perhaps the burning flames of Hell will suffice." Pierson smiled his houndish grin. "I would consider him lucky, throwing himself from that window. Perhaps he deduced that we were close behind. His pain was negligible, his agony, short-lived. Quite unlike yours will be, Master Petrie." Smirking, Pierson glanced over at Robyn. "And so, his family will have to bear his anguish and torture for his cowardice."

"But Ben died in a car accident. My mom told me he…" Robyn started, mouth quivering.

"Obviously your mother wanted to save you the mortification, the _disgrace_ of knowing your uncle murdered a priest and then committed suicide like the coward he was." Pierson leered at the two of them. "Can you imagine what the doctors around him said as he died? _'Did you lather on the sunscreen, Mr. Mears? I've heard those fires of Hell are quite scorching…'_ I doubt much pity is taken on a person who slays a man of _God._"

Mark stared at Robyn, his eyes filled with astonishment. "Your _uncle_…? Ben was…you're related to…?" He backed up into the concrete wall, his head spinning. Pierson's gaze followed him, focused and amused. "You…you're a liar," Mark mumbled, clutching the side of his head with his hand. "Straker didn't have kids. I _know_ you're lying…"

But as he looked into Pierson's eyes, he saw a familiar flicker of malice, dark and cold. Unmistakably similar to Richard Straker's gaze, identically as haunting, just as it had appeared two years before. The malevolent, calculating glint that windowed a sinisterly brilliant mind…it was the same. And Mark knew it.

-----------------------------------------

"Would you like to meet your grandmother, Master Petrie?"

Mark pulled himself out of his trance. He gaped at Pierson, mouth open skeptically. _"What?"_

Pierson took a step forward. "Your grandmother. I have her here. Do you wish to see her?"

Robyn grasped his shoulder. "Mark, don't, I think he's…"

He pulled away, his eyes locked on Pierson's. "What did you do to her?" he growled.

Pierson held up both hands innocently. "I have not harmed a hair on her head, Master Petrie. She is locked away safely, awaiting your arrival. You may speak with her, if you so desire."

_"Mark,"_ Robyn hissed in his ear. "Don't go. I think it's a trap. She isn't really your grandmother; she's…"

"Come along, Master Petrie. She has been dying to meet you."

"Trust me on this, Mark!"

"Mustn't keep your dear old grandmamma waiting…"

"Don't…"

"We must…"

A child's shriek pierced the air around them, loud, shrill, and terrified. _"Chanley!"_ Mark gasped. He ran towards the cellar door, the streams of sunlight illuminating his struggles with the locks. Finally, frustrated, he turned towards the window above him, when suddenly a hand grabbed onto his arm. Mark turned to see Pierson, his eyes wide and glassy. His teeth were clenched in anger, and the vein above his temple throbbed.

_"Where…are you…going, Master…Petrie?"_ he moaned through gritted teeth, the corners of his mouth twisted into a fanatical grin. The grip on Mark's arm was bone-crushingly tight, the blood draining from his hand. Almost instinctively, Mark drew his hand into a fist and launched it at Pierson's face, feeling his nose crush beneath his knuckles.

Pierson screamed, his hands instantly retreating from Mark's arm and covering the lower half of his face. Blood streamed from between his fingers, little crimson rivers running down his wrists.

Mark turned wildly, searching for Robyn. "Come on! Chanley…" Robyn appeared next to him, her eyes wide.

"What's going on, Mark?"

"Not now…we have to get out of here. Here…" He pushed open the door and bent down, grasping her ankles. "Ready?" She nodded uncertainly. Mark lifted her off the ground, up towards the window.

Robyn pulled herself up, her arms scraping against the wooden paneling. Pushing herself along, she turned to help Mark. He reached up to her, grasping her hand, when he felt arms around his neck. Mark swung his head around and came face-t-face with Pierson's glowering eyes.

Pierson had gone completely mad; his eyes were bloodshot, and perspiration dripped down his face in buckets. Grinning wildly, he squeezed his arms together, cutting off Mark's air. Mark began to choke, his knees going limp beneath him. Darkness began to gather around the corners of his eyes, and he felt himself grow dizzy, unstable…

Robyn's foot shot out of nowhere, her toes connecting with the side of Pierson's face with an ear-splitting crunch. Howling, Pierson stumbled backwards, a new gash appearing on his upper jawbone. Mark scrambled up out of the basement, casting one final look over his shoulder. He and Pierson made eye contact, their eyes burning fire into the other's face. Mark felt Robyn's hands on his arm, and he got up, shaking, to his feet.

"Are you okay, Mark? Mark?" Robyn looked hesitantly into his eyes, her mouth trembling.

Slowly, he nodded, massaging his neck delicately. His eyes grew wide. "Chanley…" he breathed, taking off around the side of the house. Robyn followed him, baffled.

As she rounded the corner of the Marsten House, she nearly collided with Mark, who stood stock-still, staring at the driveway. Robyn peered around his shoulder. "Mark, what…?"

A truck sat amidst the gravel, empty. Not too far away, a body lay, bleeding, the legs and arms spread apart, putting the image of snow-angels in Robyn's mind. Mark rushed over to the person.

"Jackson!" He knelt next to him, inspecting the gash on the side of Bobby's head. It wasn't too deep; just bad enough to render him unconscious. Mark sighed with relief…for one awful moment, he had thought Bobby Jackson was…

"Mark?" Robyn ran up next to him, propping Bobby's head up into her lap. "This is Chanley?"

"No…" Mark stood up slowly, his eyes fixed on the empty truck. "No, that isn't Chanley."


	10. The Choice Between Life and Undeath

**Author's Note** Hi, everybody! Long time, no chat! Thanks goes out to all my readers who, for the first time, will be listed so you can all feel good about yourselves. **Allison/Marzipan: **My most loyal reader…much thanks and love! Don't be scared of me too much! **Solitaire's Mornie:** Glad to have another SL/Mark fanfic writer. Come back to ! **Ushuaia:** I hope you mean "interesting" in a good way… **Michelle/rorynjess: **It's okay that you had no idea what was going on…maybe if you'd actually WATCH the movie…j/k, love you mucho! **Legginglas:** You are too kind! Thank you…you have inflated my ego to a size I never thought possible! **I-Love-Azrael:** I fear the purple dishwasher eating monkeys…lol, glad you're enjoying it! **Fire-Dispatcher:** My most serious reviewer…I appreciate the critiquing and my reminders to watch my typing! Thank you!

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**CHAPTER NINE**: THE CHOICE BETWEEN LIFE AND UNDEATH

Three figures sat around the table, silhouetted against an orange harvest moon. None of them spoke, merely casting quick and weary glances at each other and the windows, carefully not making eye contact. Each was engrossed in their own ponderings.

Mark's shoulders were hunched, his chin supported on his chest, hair hanging limply in front of his face. His gaze was cloudy and expressionless, and his only movements were ones of frustration and contemplation. Sometimes he would press his thumb to the inside corner of his eye socket, as one might rub their temples or pinch the bridge of one's nose.

As she clutched the handle of her coffee mug, Robyn watched Mark, her eyes softened with angst but highlighted by a glint of dark fear. Her stare dropped to the steam that rose lazily from the hot water that filled her cup. It curled up towards the ceiling, wrapping itself around her head and heating her face, and she closed her eyes, as if in peace.

Bobby Jackson was the only one who was visibly nervous, and his movements reflected his agitation. They were short and incoherent, as if his joints were attached to invisible strings. His gaze bounced between Mark and Robyn frenetically, confusion blurring his vision. "Will someone please explain what's going on in this town?" Bobby broke the stillness, his voice cracking like a whip through the heavy silence. "Who was the big guy who attacked me?"

"Big guy?" Mark's head shot up from its resting place, his gaze hard and intense. "What 'big guy'?"

"I don't…remember…" Bobby's eyes became glassy, focusing on some point above them. "He came out of the house…I was surprised, of course, but not _alarmed_…I wasn't suspicious until I saw his socket wrench…" He broke off, sighing. "That's about all I can recall. Everything else…it's like it's all shrouded in mist, or a cloud, or something…" He paused, stroking his chin. "But his _eyes_…his eyes were bright and shiny, gray…and bloodshot…" Bobby laughed in spite of himself. "That memory is really vivid. His eyes were _really_ red, like a _crimson_ red. And I remember the last thought running through my head was, _'Gee, he should see an eye doctor'_. He was probably just drunk, or high, or…"

"Insane with anger," Mark finished dramatically, and the corner of his mouth turned upward slightly, giving the slightest impression of a smile. Robyn turned to him sharply, eyes narrowed.

"You know who I'm talking about…?" Bobby asked, leaning towards him apprehensively.

"My uncle. He's crazy," Mark replied simply, shrugging nonchalantly. He pulled the collar of his dark gray T-shirt down to the right, exposing a jagged black scar that ran along his collarbone to the beginning of his shoulder joint. "He did that when my principal called him concerning a certain 'misdemeanor' I committed on school property."

Bobby's eyes widened as he stood, taking a few long strides over to Mark's seat. "Why's it _black_?"

"Screwdriver. Must have been rust on it." Mark reached behind his head, pulling his messy brown hair back with one hand. A large red welt bulged at the base of his neck. "The Redskins lost to the Steelers. Alan didn't like that. So he snuffed his Cuban cigar out on me."

Bobby sat back, pinching the bridge of his unusually thin, bony nose with two long spider-like fingers. "So what's he doing here? And more importantly, _why_ is he trying to kill me?"

Mark snorted indignantly. "Kill _you_? You were just in his way. Alan's only target is…" A high-pitched screeching cut through the air like a knife, bringing all else to a sudden halt. With dawning dread, all focus gravitated towards the large bay window in the front of Robyn's living room, horror clutching each of their minds with numbing terror.

They found themselves staring at their own images, the reflection of the lighted kitchen mirrored off the darkened glass. "Hit the lights," Mark hissed through gritted teeth, giving Robyn an apprehensive sideways glance. In two long strides, she made her way across the kitchen and to the wall. The light bulb above them went out with a dull snapping sound, throwing the room into pitch blackness. Mark crept towards the window, pulse raising, face damp with sweat. Pressing his hands to the glass, he peered into the night…

A face shot up towards him, mouth leering, eyes shining like diamonds against the blackened sky. Mark gave a strangled cry and fell backwards onto the couch. The woman outside the window smiled hideously at him, baring her fangs and dragging her nails against the glass.

_"Mom?"_ Robyn whimpered, stumbling forwards in the darkness and placing one palm flat against the window. Mrs. Evanoff's face remained vacant, her eyes glassy and hollow. "Mom, it's me! Look, it's Roby, Momma, see?" Her mother's grin widened, fangs extending like needles. "_Mommy_…?" She shrank against the wall, sobbing bitterly. Mark found his way over to her and clutched her shoulders tightly, pulling her face up towards his.

"Listen to me." She met his eyes hesitantly. "That is not your mother." Robyn made a deep guttural sound in the back of her throat, her gaze flickering between Mark and the creature outside the glass. "You have to keep telling yourself that. She is not your mother."

His voice echoed through the room emptily, neither Robyn nor Bobby hearing him. Both stared at the figure outside the window in stupefied shock, minds filled with thousands of disbelieving yet horrified thoughts. And in that moment, they both believed.

A thump resonated beneath them, followed by slow, rhythmic footsteps. One notion radiated through each terrified head: _Someone was coming upstairs._ Three pairs of eyes snapped to the basement door as it opened with heart-stopping anticipation.

-----------------------------------------

As soon as the milky white hand emerged through the gray shadows, Mark knew who it was. The razor sharp claws that extended from the fingers were stained scarlet, ending in tips long and pointed enough to be mistaken for knives. They dug into the white oak panels along the basement door, leaving small, needle-like impressions in the wood. A bare foot came out of the darkness, the toenails equally as elongated and sharp, chipped and colored a dark brown-yellow. Two silver beams shone out from behind the door.

The figure vanished in a soft glow of flashing light. Mark froze, his gaze darting around the room. He backed up slowly towards the corner, senses heightened as his eyes strained to see in the darkness. He saw Robyn curled into the fetal position against the wall, a dark shape gliding past the window, shadows moving through the night sky eerily… He inched towards the wall guardedly, when his shoulders struck a large, chillingly cold object.

"Good evening, Mark," Grant whispered, his eyes gleaming dangerously. Then he lunged.

Mark's hand flew to his back pocket, searching frantically for the cross. For a brief moment, his eyes flickered up to Grant's face, stretched taut, mouth wide enough to swallow his own fist. The fangs extended towards his neck, drawing closer and closer. _'This is it,_' he thought desperately. _'And after all that…' _Out of the corner of his eye, Mark saw something fly through the air towards Grant. He turned to see Robyn standing, shaking, behind Grant, her hand poised in mid air. The book she had thrown struck Grant's temple, and in his few moments of surprise, the creature was caught off guard.

Without any hesitation, Mark pressed the cross to Grant's forehead, feeling his face smolder beneath the plastic. Grant's scream rang through the room, high-pitched and filled with pain. His features began to fold within themselves, his nose and mouth melting together and crumbling to ashes before Mark's eyes. The skin around his eyes bubbled from the heat of the cross, and Grant's horrendous screeches pierced the night sky.

"Sorry, Grant," Mark murmured, and for an instant, tears intermingled with the sweat that poured down his face. Grant gave one final howl, then flew towards the ceiling and shattered into a cloud of dust. The room was completely silent and motionless, save the tiny fragments of vampiric debris that descended from the ceiling like snow. Mark turned his head and met Robyn's gape, their gazes unwavering, eyes wide.

"Okay…come in, then."

Mark and Robyn turned slowly in petrified shock to Bobby, who stared unblinkingly at the figure behind the glass. The terror that had lined his face was replaced with expressionless composure. His hand reached for the window pane, unwavering, and pulled back the lock.

"_Shit,_ she's got him!" Mark called frantically, pushing Robyn away from the window and diving over the couch towards Bobby. Mark slammed into him with a low grunt and sent the thin, bony man sprawling to the floor with a thud.

Mrs. Evanoff soared in through the window, her long black hair flying back from her head, fangs bared and ready. Mark reached for the pocket of his jeans, expecting to feel the cross-shaped lump of the plastic tombstone, but instead found…nothing. Horrified, he scanned the hardwood floor for the cross. _"Robyn!"_ Mark cried as Mrs. Evanoff reached for him. "Robyn, get my cross!"

Robyn dropped to her hands and knees, stretching her arms out across the floor and searching blindly. Her fingers brushed past something rock-hard and cold, and she quickly grasped the item. It turned out to be a brick hearth, on top of which was a gold stand of fire irons.

Bobby struggled against the unnatural strength of Mrs. Evanoff's grip as it tightened against his throat. In the other hand, he saw a fistful of Mark's shirt collar. The teeth that descended upon him were glinting in the moonlight, pale and silver like the gleam of pearls. He felt the tiny pricks of her fangs penetrate his neck, and for a moment, the fear clutching his mind was so overwhelming that he stopped breathing…and then something flew past his face just a few centimeters away from his cheek.

Time froze. Bobby felt the teeth extract themselves from his skin slowly, still void of his uncontaminated blood, and both he and Mark were released from Mrs. Evanoff's clutch. They fell to the ground with a thump, and together they turned to see Robyn poised in a throwing position, her left hand extended out from her body. Following the line of her toss, their gaze fell upon Mrs. Evanoff.

She stood poised against the darkened window, her limbs spread out from her torso, mouth gaping. Her large dark eyes flickered from astonishment to painful confusion, before her gaze dropped to the long golden fire tong stood out on her chest. Dark crimson blood flowing freely from the hole below her collarbone, and a low moan escaped her lips.

_"Roby…?"_ Mrs. Evanoff murmured as she slid back against the wall, leaving a scarlet trail behind her. Her arms and legs began to convulse, and she shot up towards the ceiling, her hand grasping blindly back towards the ground. Robyn sprang up and tried to reach her, but her hand simply passed through her mother's, and Mrs. Evanoff disappeared in a flash of light. Glimmering remains drifted to the ground around them, and then everything was still.

-----------------------------------------

The box was cold. Very, very cold. He could see his breath frozen in the air every time he exhaled, like the smoke from a cigarette. Grasping his hands around the wooden ledge inside the box, he peered out through the cracks, allowing his eyes to adjust to the darkness.

He listened to the thunderous, solid footsteps of the big man, Alan, above him, treading slowly back and forth over the rug. They were uncoordinated and sluggish, and he heard the occasional th_-thump_ of Alan tripping over a wrinkle in the carpet. _'Stupid fat man,'_ he thought to himself, listening to the deep rumble of Alan's voice cursing the rug.

He waited.

Childish uncertainty clouded his mind, and his patience wore thin. Discouraged, he rubbed his hands back and forth over the floor. His hand passed over a small object hidden within the four wooden walls, and upon inspection, he found it to be a piece of charcoal.

Turning to the nearest corner of the box, he began to draw. His fingers moved slowly over the wood, sketchy and hesitant. A loud rumble shook the house, and his hand was jerked to the side in surprise. Frustrated, he inspected the accidental line the ran jaggedly over his art. He sat back against the oak siding, examining the picture meticulously.

A door on the floor over him slammed, and the heavy thuds of footsteps alerted him to Alan's arrival. A light above him flickered on, and two legs as wide as tree trunks cast an unusually large shadow over the crate. He peered up through the cracked upper limit of the box and met Alan's eyes grimly. "What do you want?" he demanded, scowling.

"Still so sure of yourself, are you?" Alan taunted. "Still confident that they will come up here for you? What makes you think you're so important that they'd willingly risk their lives just to _try_ and save you?"

"He'll be here."

Alan raised his eyebrows doubtfully. "I guess we'll see, won't we, _Master Chanley?"_

"Go away," he demanded sullenly. To his surprise, Alan gave a low (and most likely mocking) bow and left.

Chanley listened as the dull clunks of Alan's heavy feet moved from the top of the stairs to the kitchen. He sat in the shadowy stillness, the sound of rain pounding against the roof ringing through the room, and he brought his knees to his chest, hugging them to himself. Through the steady hammering of water, Chanley's ears picked up one other sound.

A low whisper echoed through the wooden walls, like the hissing of a snake. Out of the corner of his eye, Chanley saw a flicker of movement. Slowly, he turned his head towards the wooden box that sat in the corner…

-----------------------------------------

"So what's the plan?" Bobby asked, his gaze concentrated on Mark attentively. Brow furrowed, Mark sat on the couch, staring out the window. The sky had been painted a deep, rich red, and glimmers of orange began to appear at the base of the horizon.

"Confront Pierson. He's awake during the day." Mark stood up, his face expressionless. "He won't have help from anyone…except Alan. The night is his time. Right now, it's ours."

"We don't have any kind of advantage, Mark," Robyn murmured from the opposite side of the couch. "They're both armed, _and_ they're expecting us. Plus, if we get caught somewhere when the sun goes down…" Her voice trailed off, and she shuddered.

"The house." Mark and Robyn turned to Bobby, perplexed. "That's where they're keeping the kid. Somewhere in that house…we can take him back, then get ourselves out of this Godforsaken town."

"_'Get him back'_? How do you propose we do that?" Robyn challenged, folding her arms across her chest.

"We drive up to the house, use some kind of distraction, find the boy, then drive off into the distance like the finale to an adventure movie…" Bobby mused.

Robyn snorted indignantly, frowning at the young reporter. "We can't _drive_ up there; that's how we've been caught each time. They see the car, they know we're there, and that's the end of us."

"Hide the car in some bushes…you think we can _hike_ out of this place?" he retorted, spreading his hands out in front of him desperately. "We need to think ahead here."

Mark stood up slowly. "We can bargain our way into getting Chanley back." He inhaled deeply. "Since we have something they want, we're in a good position to negotiate."

"What do we…" Robyn started. Her eyes widened, and she jerked her gaze over to Mark. "Mark, you can't…"

"It's all we got, Robyn. Apparently, your family already paid in full." Robyn swallowed, her eyes becoming glassy and red. "They're just playing with our minds, taking each of you one by one. You're all mere pieces in their sick game, like chess pawns."

"A _game_? That's what this is to them?" Bobby spat.

"You think they're having _trouble_ taking the town, Jackson? You think they're taking this _seriously? _Did you happen to see what was outside the window last night?" Mark put on a mocking mask of contemplation. "Ah, yes, of course you did! You're the one who invited her in!"

Bobby scowled, folding his toothpick-like arms across his chest in anger. "Obviously you know what they're capable of. And therefore you must realize that _wasn't_ my fault."

Mark didn't answer him. He frowned and wiped a shaking hand across his forehead. "The Mears family, no matter however distant from the root, has been taken…I think I could convince Pierson that he doesn't need you," he said, glancing at Robyn.

"Mark, we need you. You were here last time; you know how to stop them," she whispered.

His hand sliced through the air violently, cutting her off. "No, I _knew_ how to stop them. The thing is, this _isn't_ like last time. Last time, it was in their nature. That's what they do: they infest towns, they spread." His voice dropped. "Now, it's not about infesting, it's about revenge. Revenge is an emotion, and thereby it's anything _but_ natural to them. " He met Robyn's eyes apprehensively. "We're playing by different rules this time."

"So you're saying that the only way to get out of this alive is to sacrifice yourself?" Bobby demanded, staring at Mark beneath his furrowed brow. "Do you understand what you're subjecting yourself to?" Mark didn't answer. "And who's to say the boy is still even alive? It's been almost a day since he was gone. You think they take mercy? Look at what they did to Robyn's mother!" he shouted, pointing his bony finger in Robyn's face, who shuddered involuntarily. "You can't expect them to keep a kid alive just because he's a _kid_."

"It was their plan all along. That's why they took Grant and Ms. Lawry…that's why they took _you."_ His eyes trailed over Robyn's face, and she turned her eyes to the ground. "I didn't come after either of them, and we got away when I went up to the house yesterday. They'll just keep feeding off you, like bloodsucking parasites, or killing you, simply because I befriended you. It's a never-ending cycle, Robyn. Until I stop running."

"Mark, you have to realize you're not going to _die_ for that child. You're going to _become_ one of them." His face remained unresponsive, and she looked at Bobby, silently yet desperately asking for help. "I can't let you do that. You…you're not thinking clearly."

"Actually, for the first time I _am_ thinking clearly. Through this whole experience, it's been about me." He laughed hollowly, and Bobby flinched. "Pierson was right about one thing: I was assuming that their objective was _me_, and therefore _I_ have to get out of this alive." He paused, his breath caught in his throat. "I don't think that's the case this time."

-----------------------------------------

_The doctor retrieved a bundle of thick, finely crafted wooden sticks from the passenger seat of his BMW. "I made these up last night." He handed two of the stakes to Mark. "Take that."_

_Father Callahan glanced at Mark warily, his cheeks flushed. "Son, stay in the car."_

_"I'm going," Mark replied without any hesitation, and he followed Dr. Cody up the path._

_"Maybe you'd rather stay behind, Father," Ben Mears suggested, turning to Callahan._

_"No, I'll go. This team needs a clear head."_

"I can't do this, Mark."

Mark turned to Robyn, snapping himself out of his memories. "Can't do what?" he asked, knowing all too well what she was talking about.

"I can't send you to your death, or you un-death, or whatever you want to call it. It's not right…" She didn't finish her sentence. Mark grabbed his bag and started the trek up the hill, and Robyn reluctantly followed.

Bobby left his Jeep behind the assortment of small trees and bushes. He took one last, pitifully gloomy look at his beloved car, then turned and jogged up behind Robyn and Mark.

The grass along the gravel path had become yellow and brown, with small glistening beads of dew reflecting the early morning sunlight. Three of the last living beings in Jerusalem's Lot treaded up to the Marsten House, silent, alone with their own thoughts.

The house grew larger and larger in their line of vision, and with each stride their fears grew along with the image of the building before them. When they reached the front stairs leading up to the door, they stopped. Mark took the first few steps up to the door hesitantly, then turned back and faced Bobby and Robyn. "You guys go around back...Robyn, you remember which window we came out of yesterday?" She nodded slowly, eyes shining. "Good. Climb down there, find Chanley. As soon as you get him, leave. Don't come looking for me, don't go upstairs. Just retrace your steps, go back out the window, and then run down to Bobby's car. Get out of here as soon as you physically can."

For a moment, neither Robyn nor Bobby moved. They simply stared at Mark, mixed emotions dancing across their faces. Bobby held his head high and stuck his hand out solidly, his Adam's apple standing unusually far out on his throat. "It's been an adventure, Mark. Good luck in there." Mark extended his own hand, trembling, and they shook.

"Thanks, Jackson…Bobby. Find Chanley pretty quickly, 'kay?" Bobby nodded somberly.

Robyn watched, solemn and still, as they said their goodbyes. Mark turned to her, and she held out her own quivering hand as tears began to shimmer in her eyes. He gave her a small smile and stepped forward, wrapping his arms around her and hugging her tightly. "Bye, then," he whispered, a lump forming in his throat. He swallowed a few times before releasing her.

"We're going to wait. I mean, you're just distracting them. You'll get out of there in a few minutes..." Robyn said hurriedly. "We'll just wait for you in the car, and when you're done..."

"No," he replied, his voice firm. "You need to get Chanley out of here, Robyn. He's just a kid..."

_"So are you!"_ she cried. "Mark, you're just sixteen! You think you're an adult, you act like one, talk like one...but you're _not_ an adult! You have your entire life ahead of you..."

Bobby nodded in agreement. "You're throwing away everything, Mark. Do you realize that?"

"I'm not throwing anything away. It's called a sacrifice. I give up something in order to gain something better."

Robyn cut in, angry and distressed. "No, a sacrifice is humble and...and _good_. What you're doing is suicide. You're committing suicide in order to help _one_ person...but have you thought about what happens _after_ all this?" Mark's eyes narrowed, and he started up the steps. "What about when we get out of the Lot? You said he was an orphan...what if you're the only person he has now, Mark? What if he has nobody else, no other family?" Mark continued climbing the stairs to the front door. "_What about me?_"

He stopped. Frowning, Mark turned his head and stared at her. After a moment, his head drooped and he shrugged helplessly. "I'm sorry. I'm out of ideas. I don't know what any of us can do anymore." She stared at him pleadingly. "What else do you want me to say, Robyn?" he yelled, frustrated.

"Say you'll stay!"

"You know I can't do that, Robyn," he murmured. He turned back to the house slowly.

"Mark..." Robyn called desperately, taking a few steps up the staircase.

He put his hand on the doorknob. Closing his eyes, he put his hand on the doorknob. "Don't follow me."


End file.
